Seven Years
by Bella S James
Summary: (Set after 6x01) It's been seven years since Mickey went to prison, and Ian didn't wait for him - at least, that's what he told himself. Now Mickey's back and everything's changed. Ian x Mickey (maybe M later)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

Seven years had passed. Seven.

Seven years since Ian's little sister got knocked up, six since his little niece came out of her. Seven years had passed since Fiona met the love of her life, it seemed, though Ian could never be too sure with her. It had been seven years since Carl's first stint in juvie and he'd been walking in and out ever since, eventually upgrading to prison. It was his second home. Seven years, and Ian's older brother – his best friend – was out of college, doing a teaching job at some shithole community college. Seven years since Liam said his first proper sentence; now he never shut up.

Seven years since Ian was diagnosed as bipolar.

He was just as fucked up then as he was now.

Ian supposed the lithium made it easier. The first year or so was just a continued dull state where his brain felt like it was filled with cotton, but the adjustments helped. Now he was able to laugh, work, even fuck when he wanted to – but he rarely did, anymore. Like a normal person.

"Hey, Ii, you want some cereal?"

Ian broke from his fixed daze down at the black coffee in front of him, where he leaned against the counter. He took a breath and smiled automatically when he looked up at his boyfriend, Joaquin, who grazed him softly with his shoulder when he walked past him.

"No, I'm good with coffee, thanks." Ian had barely touched it.

Joaquin smiled at him, that lazy lopsided smile of his, and brushed his outgrown black bed-hair from his matching black eyes. "Okay," he said, then as he poured the milk into his Lucky Charms, he took a better look at Ian, and frowned. "Jesus, did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"Nah, Liam's nightmares mixed with the late-night sex kinda kept me up."

Joaquin grinned unapologetically and took a bite of his cereal. He kicked the fridge door closed and leaned against the counter beside Ian. He licked at the spoon purposefully before taking another bite, making Ian smirk slightly.

"It's only for a few more days. Fi and Sean will be back soon, and then we can return to our rightful place at the Back of the Yards," Joaquin said, with another smile.

"The Southside is our rightful place." Ian took his cup to the sink and poured his coffee down the drain.

Joaquin rolled his eyes. " _Joooder, callate, por favor?_ Stop with the grim ghetto shit, Ian. You rose up in the world, made something of yourself."

Ian frowned and propped himself up against the sink, folding his muscular arms over his equally muscular, and bare, chest. "What ever happened to 'once a hoodrat, always a hoodrat'?"

Joaquin rolled his eyes and set aside his bowl, having practically licked it clean. "Lip said that, not me and I always called bullshit on that. Now I gotta get to the museum before they realize how useless I actually am and revoke my grant money, and you have work in like… T minus ten minutes." Joaquin smiled warmly again as he walked over to Ian, first to put his bowl in the sink, but then to hook his finger in Ian's sweatpants and reel him in for a kiss. Ian liked the taste of sugary Lucky Charms on his tongue and his smile stayed even after Joaquin pulled away.

"I got Donny to cover my shift, so I don't have to get in till late."

Joaquin placed his hands against the bench on either side of Ian, trapping him there comfortably. "True, but you're forgetting you have that parent meeting with Liam's principal in about an hour."

"Shit."

"So, c'mon, _vamonos,"_ Joaquin ordered, slapping Ian's shoulder, before heading from the kitchen up the stairs.

"And enough of that switching to Spanish shit," Ian called after him, "I like to know whether or not I'm supposed to be insulted."

" _Besa mi culo, puto."_

"Fuck you, too," Ian called after him before hearing the door close and the shower turn on. Briefly, Ian considered getting in with him, but opted against it when pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, still tasting the sugar from when they kissed.

Ian chose a bowl of Lucky Charms instead.

Halfway through his breakfast, finding himself feeling less groggy with every bite of sugary goodness, his sister Debbie came trotting down the stairs. Her red hair was in disarray, knotted at the back, her eyes were black from last night's makeup, and she hadn't bothered to change out of last night's clothes from whatever party of club she stumbled out of.

"Hey, Debs," Ian said brightly.

"Don't," was all Debbie said in response, her voice hoarse. She shoved past him towards the fridge where she pulled out the carton of milk and started chugging.

Ian frowned. "What'd I say?"

She stopped drinking and wiped her swollen lips with the back of her hand, still with the club's stamp on it. "Whatever you're about to say, keep it to yourself, Ian. I wasted an entire night of sleep and an entire day's earnings of booze on this one guy who was sending me signals all night… Turned out to be one of your kind."

Ian stopped, mid crunch. "My kind? Uh, hey—c'mon, that milk's for Liam's breakfast," Ian scolded, pulling the carton out of Debbie's hands when she attempted to chug the rest.

A bit of milk trickled down her chin and she wiped it away. With a click of her tongue, she said, "Whatever," and poured herself some coffee instead. As she sipped from the chipped mug, Ian took a closer look at the stamp on her hand, first frowning, then smiling to himself in amusement. "Um, Debs."

"What?"

"The Long Cocktail's a gay bar."

She shot him a glare over the rim of her mug. "Well, I know that now, don't I?"

"Why do you even have a stamp? You're 21, Debs."

She shrugged dismissively and smacked her mug down on the bench rather petulantly. "What, and I should go around _advertising_ that? Guys like 'em young."

Ian stopped mid crunch again in a moment of judgment, then chose to remain silent and focus on the Lucky Charms, wondering if maybe it would give him some good luck for the day.

Debbie sighed. "Alright, I'm gonna shower."

"Quin's using it."

Debbie pursed her lips, then rolled her eyes, expressing her distaste in the fact. "Fine, I guess I'll wake up Lizzy first, then."

Ian took another bite. "She's already up. Liam, too. They'll be down for breakfast in a few minutes when they're dressed. I'm giving them a ride to school if you want me to drop you off somewhere?"

"Like where, my non-existent job, or my non-existent house?" She sneered, "No thanks, Ian."

Ian chose to keep his mouth shut with a mild bob of his head and felt his shoulders fall to ease when she stomped back up the steps. Ian always was a better parent to her kid than she was – but she tried, or at least Ian liked to think she did.

Ian was given a few more minutes of peace where he finished his cereal, switched the laundry to the drier, put on a shirt, and made the kids breakfast. He didn't need to shout for them, because at 7.30, the two kids were bolting down the stairs, like clockwork.

"Ian!" Little Lizzy beamed at the sight of her uncle, as though he hadn't been there every other morning for the past two weeks, and hugged him tightly around his waist.

"Hey monkeys, food's at the table," he said with a smile and a gentle squeeze of Lizzy's shoulder. She looked exactly like her mother, but with darker eyes and less pale skin. Like her mother, she was a clever kid; knew more than most adults, at times.

They started munching down on their cereal and drinking the juice that Ian refilled when Liam looked up at him and asked with his mouth half-full, "Did Carl call?"

"Nah, not yet, but that could just be because his calling privileges were revoked again. Don't worry, he'll call."

"Okay." Liam's shoulders still slumped with disappointment. Currently, Carl was doing six months for assault, but Carl rarely ever got in trouble for that unless it was voluntary. If asking Lip, he'd say it was to complete some unfinished business which Ian chose to avoid getting involved in.

He placed a hand on Liam's head, making him raise his chin. "He'll call," Ian assured him, knowing it wasn't a lie. The only thing Carl loved more than his 'business' was his family, and that mostly meant his little brother.

"C'mon, eat up. We still have that meeting with your principal. Something to do with your attendance?"

Liam groaned. "Not my fault public school's a piece of shit."

"Hey," Ian snapped, but it was Joaquin who scolded "Language," with the more paternal voice when he entered the kitchen again, fully clothed in what was supposed to be formal attire, but was instead a partially buttoned up shirt, no tie, and a vibrant coloured green t-shirt peaking through. He dragged a towel through his floppy hair, then made to whip Ian's ass with the towel.

Ian grinned but couldn't manage the laugh that Joaquin did. He glanced at the wet-haired boyfriend before beginning to wipe down the table with an already dirty rag. "You leaving, now?"

"Why, you gettin' sick of me?" He smiled wryly, rolling the towel up again and hooking Ian in by the neck, pulling him too close for comfort in front of Liam and Lizzy.

He shrugged, snaking his hands around Joaquin's hips, managing to keep him at a distance. "I'm not getting sick of the paychecks."

He grinned lazily before kissing him again. He held him there until Ian gave in and unclenched his jaw, allowing another taste of Lucky Charms. It was replaced with peppermint that Ian didn't like as much.

"Tryin' to eat, here," Liam mumbled, rising to get his bag and coat.

Ian pulled away, shoving at Joaquin gently and looking to the kids. "Put your dishes in the sink, and we'll go," he told him. Liam did as he was told, but Lizzy kept drinking her juice.

With her big brown eyes, she looked up at him. "Is mom sick again?"

Joaquin left Ian's side when he knelt down beside her chair. Despite the lump in his throat, he assured her that she'd be fine, that Lizzy didn't need to worry.

"If Carl calls, can you tell him I said hi?" Liam asked.

Ian glanced at him and gave a nod, then looked back to Lizzy when she tapped a finger on his shoulder, her nose scrunched up. She leaned close to his ear, making Ian frown curiously, then whispered, "You're my favourite."

Ian smiled again, albeit a broken one that made his heart ache a little bit. She pecked him on the cheek then hopped from the chair and they were all out the door within minutes, Joaquin in his own car.

…

The meeting with Liam's principal was quicker than Ian thought it would be – basically the asshole blabbing on about how much of a slacker Liam was, doing his best to hide the fact that he was a complete racist.

Thing was, when Ian got there, his brother was already there too. Turns out, Fiona had told them both the same information, figuring that one would surely forget in her parental absence.

He and Lip both chose to stay, and with the spare time they'd created for themselves, were able to fit in a coffee at the only Starbucks still available in the Southside. That attempt to better the neighborhood one franchise at a time hadn't panned out.

The Southside was still a ghetto shithole – thank god.

"So how's college going?" Ian asked, though they both knew he didn't really care.

Lip snorted, taking a sip from the most basic drink he could possibly order that was still overly expensive. "A fucking waste of time." He sniffed out of irritation. "Teaching robotics to a community college is like teaching evolution to creationists."

Ian smiled weakly, looking down at his second untouched coffee for the day.

"Fuck it; I only have to teach there two more fucking years… After that I can maybe get a real job."

"Ever thought about talking to your old professors?"

Lip shrugged, taking another swig before putting a cigarette between his teeth. Though dressed like a legitimate adult with a legitimate job, he still always had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. "Nah… The only ones that put up with me either drank themselves to death, filed for sexual harassment, or made the mistake of getting sober."

Ian leaned further into his chair, folding his arms back across his chest. "Didn't think you'd have anything against sobriety, considering Frank."

"Fucker was an asshole without the liquor."

"Kind of ironic, huh?"

"How he died?"

"Yeah."

Lip flicked at his lighter until a breath of smoke clouded his face. He took a puff and tucked his lighter back into his pocket, shaking his head. "Nope. If his liver didn't kill him, how else would the fucker have died if not at gunpoint?"

For some reason, Ian grinned, but Lip didn't comment on him being inappropriate; probably because he gave off a laugh. "Lets talk about something else," Ian said, not wanting to let himself be morbid like Lip.

"Sure," Lip said with a shrug. He took another inhale of cancer. "How're you and Quin doing?"

"Uh…" Ian hesitated, looking down at the coffee cup as he screwed it round. He had to be careful. Lip was the one who had introduced Ian to Quin in the first place; he was the only real friend Lip made in college and it was mostly because he was just as poor and corrupt as the Southside. "We're—"

"Excuse me, Sir, but you're not allowed to smoke in here," a woman said, wearing a Starbucks apron with a slightly frightful smile plastered on her face. Lip looked from the patronizing woman to the cigarette between his fingers, then back to her.

"Oh, gee. Sorry, Miss, I didn't realize," he said, his tone thick with sarcasm which the woman clearly understood but was forced to ignore. When she walked away, Lip took one last long drag before stubbing it against the lid set beside his cup. "Christ, these places… Whatever fucking happened to freedom of choice?" Lip shrugged on his bag that he hadn't replaced since he was 17, and jerked his head towards the door.

Ian followed him without complaint, finding himself unwanted in ritzy places like this. Ian left his coffee where it was, somehow finding the taste too expensive, or something, and followed his older brother out to the street. In the time it took for Lip to light another cigarette, Ian opted for the next conversation starter, veering away from talk of his love life. "You seeing anybody new?"

Lip exhaled and watched the grey smoke evaporate into the air. "Always." Pointedly, Lip looked at his younger brother and cocked a brow. "You?"

Ian frowned again, plucking the cigarette from Lip and taking a sharp drag of his own. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Lip took the time to put the cigarette back between his teeth and smile slowly. "What, you didn't hear?"

Ian's expression remained cold, placing his hands solidly by his sides, conveying his old soldier ways.

Lip's smile grew. He took the time to inhale another drag, just to be more of a dick, before telling him. "Your girlfriend's back in town… Or is it ex girlfriend? You can never be too sure with you two."

Ian brow furrowed more. "Mandy's back?"

Lip breathed in the smoke deep, nodding and saying "Yep," before exhaling. Ian took the smoke from him. "Fuck."

"Already did," Lip said, and it was clear he was only partially joking from the smirk on his face. "Twice."

Ian rolled his eyes, but took the silence Lip gave him to think about Mandy and the last time he saw her. They never talked online, or on the phone. Texting was gay, so he only ever saw her when she was in town. He could barely remember the last time he saw her, except that she punched him in the ribs as a goodbye.

Lip flicked his wrist upright to look at the time. "Fuck."

Ian snapped out of his daze, his brow still furrowed. "What?"

"Uh... Nothin', just a little late for my morning class. Listen, I gotta go, but she's probably home right now if you're thinking of stopping by. You never really know how long she'll stay in one place for a time." Lip started walking off, lighting up what was clearly a joint as he did.

"I'll tell her you said hi," Ian called after him.

Lip spun on his heels, walking backwards as he said, "I think I'll tell her myself later tonight. See ya." The thought of Mandy getting caught up with Lip again didn't sit well with Ian; he loved his brother, but he was still an asshole, and Mandy wasn't.

…

When Lip said she was home, little was open to interpretation. Mandy didn't exactly have many options in this neighborhood, and the fact that Ian hadn't seen her crashing at his place, or Fiona's, that only left one other option.

It had been a long time since he'd been to that place – four years? Five? It was that last time he went off his meds, and it didn't end well. Svetlana and him were close, and so were him and little Yevy, but all that came to a silencing end when he abandoned his babysitting duties for just a minute, attempting to beat Iggy Milkovich's head in with a can of beer. Ian didn't even remember what Iggy said or did to aggravate him, but it worked in cutting their ties.

Suddenly Svetlana's requests for a babysitter stopped, and she grew distant while Ian grew numb once more. They only ever saw each other at The Alibi, these days. How old was Yevy, now? Seven? Eight?

Ian checked his phone on his way out of the car, making sure of the time so he didn't miss his shift. He only had a dozen minutes, or so, but the thought of seeing his 'girlfriend' again made it seem worth it. But once Ian got to the front door, he hesitated – lately he always hesitated, not with work, but everything else – everyone else.

Ian chewed on his lip, his fingers twitching momentarily before clamping his hand into a fist and knocking. Looking around, Ian couldn't help but notice how much better the house looked, even if just from the outside; the yard was no longer filled with broken mechanisms and moldy furniture; the door was repainted; there were even a few flowers planted – dying ones, but still.

If Ian didn't know the place better than he did his own, he would've thought he was knocking on the wrong door. Ian knocked again.

"Fuck off!" Someone shouted from within the house. The voice was deep and gruff and Ian wondered if Mandy brought whatever boyfriend she had with her. Thinking this, Ian chose to knock again, now banging his fist less delicately than before. He never did like Mandy's boyfriends.

"Fuckin' comin'!" The boyfriend shouted again.

Ian sighed through gritted teeth, taking a step back with his hands still in fists in preparation to look tough for the asshole boyfriend that would answer. Ian rolled his eyes when he heard the tediously long rattling of chains being unlocked.

The door opened and Ian did his best to look tough; not hard considering the effort he went through to keep himself in shape. It wasn't Mandy's boyfriend. And it wasn't Iggy or Mandy herself, or Joey, or Terry – who was dead. It was the other Milkovich.

"Hey, Firecrotch."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Mickey walked out of the prison with his old black coat slung over his shoulder and a plastic bag filled with his old belongings in his hand. It wasn't much once they'd confiscated all the illegal stuff like the 8ball he had on him at the time, the butterfly knife and the fake IDs. All that remained were his keys to a car he no longer had, a phone that probably didn't work anymore, and an empty wallet with all the bills missing.

The metal gates opened and Mickey didn't even bother looking up at the guards as he was waved through, not even as he flipped them off on his way out. They were less important. He was still looking through the pathetically empty bag for something of worth when he came across an old photo that was folded up so many times, there were white marks where color used to be, and shoved so deeply into his wallet that if he didn't already know it was there, he would've missed it.

It was a rare picture, one he never intended anyone on seeing, and it was of Ian Gallagher smiling back up at him in that old beanie of his. When he looked down at it, Mickey smiled.

"Mickey," his sister called out from her car. It was the only one in the parking lot and his presence made her hop off the hood. When he walked over to her, shoving his possessions into his pockets, he didn't hide the grin he had for his little sister.

"You look good, sis. Glad to see the fuckin' panda eyes crap is gone," he said as a warm greeting. Mickey had just opened his arms out for a hug when Mandy gave him a harsh punch to the ribs.

She was strong enough to make him hunch over. "The hell was that for?"

"Asshole," Mandy muttered, then got into the car. "Get in or take the bus, Mick."

Mickey just stared at her with a fleeting bewilderment before moving past it and getting in with her – there were too many reasons she could possibly be upset. She did in fact look good, though; her hair was back to its natural black color but she'd toned down the makeup; her clothes seemed more appropriate despite the shortness of her skirt; her nose piercing was out; no more squirrel-waffle hat. If it weren't for the massive brown and yellow bruising across her cheek, he'd say she never looked better.

She started driving while Mick resisted the urge to sneak another look at the photo now crammed into his jeans. "You're welcome, for the ride, by the way," Mandy grumbled, holding a grudge over him for some reason he couldn't quite pinpoint.

"You want a medal, bitch?" Mickey belched, aiming for the open window.

Mandy only smirked. "So how was it in there?"

"It was the fucking Holiday Inn."

"Anyone make you their bitch?"

"Fuck off, I'm no one's bitch. Anyone who tried me got their eyes gouged out with a fucking spoon in the showers."

Mandy frowned from him to the road. "A spoon."

"Yeah," he said, absently as he began to pick at the dirt under his fingernails, no longer having a knife or a shiv to assist him. "A lot safer to get caught with than a real weapon."

"Gross," she muttered, but didn't seem at all put off by it. She moved on mildly. "So over the phone, you never told me how to got out so early. You're supposed to be doing 15."

Mickey shrugged, chewing at his nails. "Good behavior."

"Right," she snorted. "Well, enjoy the sabbatical while it lasts."

"What's with all the fucking questions, Jon Stewart? Jesus, I ain't a towelhead…"

The silence that followed only lasted the length of time it took for Mandy to reach the highway. Mickey was busy cleaning his nails still with little else to do, his feet now kicked up on the dashboard, when Mandy started in on the questions again. "You talked to him yet?"

Mickey's eyes glanced up from the window as he scraped his thumb over his lip, pretending the feeling in his gut wasn't there. "Who?"

"Ian, you asshole."

He dropped his hand from his face and sneered at her. "I've been out two fucking minutes, from the can to the car. Did you see me making any fucking calls?

"Pussy," Mandy muttered.

Mickey looked over at her and at the empty road ahead. He bit down a smirk before lunging and twisting a nipple. "What was that?"

"Ow, let go!" Mandy veered the car off course, almost crashing it as she tried to get him to stop. "Mick, stop! No more tittie twisters, asshole, you promised!"

He only let go when she twisted his ear, and even then he was still grinning. Mandy glared at him after getting the car back on course, her bottom row of teeth bare. He turned his grin back at the open road and shook his head. "Still not a c-cup."

Mandy smacked him with her closed fist which hurt worse than some of the men back in the joint. She acted like a girl, but she sure as shit hit like a man. "Do that again and I'll cut your dick off," she threatened.

After the pain subsided, he laughed. Like old siblings.

It was the best he'd felt in years and for most of the drive, Mickey just enjoyed the silence with his sister. The last time he'd been in a car was the transfer of state prisons which only lasted six months before moving back, but this was better by a long shot – he was free, and the windows weren't caged.

And the best part about the drive was that she didn't bring up Ian again. It also happened to be the worst part about the drive. Time continued to pass while Mickey tinkered around with the radio stations, finally settling on a Flogging Molly song, when Mandy's bruises began to itch at Mickey's conscience. His eyes would flicker from the road to her smarting cheekbone every now and then until eventually Mandy caught on and she looked at him in that way she always used to, no longer seeming so tough.

She fixed him with a certain hardened expression and Mickey just shrugged his brow, turning back ahead. "…Just say the word and I'll knock it teeth out with a baseball bat."

"Fuck you, that's the word."

After that final piece of Milkovich small talk, the rest of the drive did result in total silence.

…

"Jesus…"

Mandy pulled her car up to the front of a house without chipped paint, barred windows or old motor engines littering the front yard. There were roses instead.

Mickey grimaced at the sight. "Sure this is the right house?"

They hopped out of the car and he saw his sister shrug. "Same house I was born in before mom slit her wrists," Mandy sighed morbidly. Mickey turned his slight grimace on her and hesitated before following her up the swept porch. "Turns out your wife's got more skills than making gun trades with other Russians." She knocked on the door, a weak smile twitching at her lips, "She's also a good homemaker. And a good mom to your kid." Another knock with no answer.

"Christ," Mandy muttered then began opening the door with her own fished out set of keys. Not even Mickey had a copy.

Mickey cocked a brow, retracting a little bit. "What, you living here now?"

"No," Mandy said as she unlocked it. "Lana gave me a key when she got the locks changed."

"When did she get the locks changed?"

"About six years ago."

The Milkovich siblings walked in without invitation and again Mickey couldn't help but wonder if he'd walked into the wrong house. The place was… clean. There were no more sheets blocking light from the windows, no more empty cans of beer and old pizza boxes; there wasn't a single stash of guns in sight, not even a line of coke on the coffee table. And the whole place smelled of lilacs.

Mandy fumbled with the series of locks then dumped her bag on the table while Mickey just stood there, staring with his mouth gaped slightly open at what used to be his home. "Make yourself at home," she told him.

"This is my fucking home."

Perhaps it was his harsh voice that alerted Svetlana of their presence, and she appeared as if from out of nowhere. When she saw them, the beautiful Russian placed a hand on her hip, her face stone cold. "You. What are you doing here?"

"She's my sister," Mickey sneered slightly.

"Not her. You. Why are you here?" Her expression didn't get any softer. Mandy only smiled weakly and dismissed herself into the kitchen.

His bewilderment over the women in his life only grew. He looked around the place that he paid for every month. "This is my house... My name's still scratched into the fucking mailbox."

Svetlana remained where she stood in her yoga pants and sports bra that suffocated her overwhelming breasts, folding her arms across them. "No letters, no visits. You refuse me at the security door."

"I called."

"Liar," she said flatly; seven years and her accent was just as thick. "I call. You only speak words back when about good business, otherwise, nothing."

"Yeah…" Mickey frowned, not getting it. "What more d'you want?"

"A good father."

Mickey rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, _what_ ever. You gonna kick me out, or not?"

Svetlana pursed her lips and eyed him up and down. He told himself it didn't matter what she said one way or another, because he'd stay regardless, but the look she gave him caused a certain reconsideration.

"You support us?"

He sneered at her. "That's what I've been fucking doing the last seven years."

"Not with money only, prison boy."

"Watch yourself."

"With fatherhood," she said, ignoring his tone, "You be father, you stay in house."

"No, wait a minute—"

"You be father, you stay in house," she said with a voice far colder than before, her Russian really coming through. Mickey eyed her silently, not wanting to trap himself. He bit at the edge of his lip, hoping for an interruption that came.

"Mother."

Mickey's clear blue eyes darted towards the boy who had the same ones as his own and he froze. Not the boy, no. Little Yevy with the jet black hair, blue eyes and stocky build at the age of eight or so merely eyed Mickey almost skeptically.

Though perhaps not the best opener, Mickey waved stiffly. "Hey," he said as though it were anyone else and not his trueborn son.

The boy continued to eye him like a criminal – to which he was – then turned to talk to his mother. He spoke in Russian.

It sounded like _'shit toy live yuck core shit'_ , though Mickey supposed what the boy said was very different. It was followed by Svetlana replying with what sounded like _'Eat the wash oates, Yevgeny'_. At least Mickey was able to recognize the boy's name, though he would continue to avoid pronouncing it his entire life.

Mickey gestured to him, though his eyes remained locked with Svetlana's. "What's he fuckin' saying?"

"I'm gonna have a shower," Mandy muttered from the kitchen archway where she stood with a beer in hand. She left to the bathroom but not before ruffling up Yevy's hair playfully, lovingly.

"Appreciate the update."

Mandy flipped him off before slamming the door closed, leaving him alone with his wife and child. There was a painful silence as the two just stared at him and he could feel himself start to sweat, despite it nearing winter. "…So about the business."

"We do not speak business in front of Yevgeny," she told him, placing a motherly hand on the boy's shoulder. The kid remained silent.

"Does he even know what the fuck I'm saying?" He exclaimed, getting unreasonably angry. "Besides, it's the damn family business, the kid's gotta learn someday fucking soon. Jesus Christ, at his age, I was already stealing hubcaps from rich kids."

"You teach Yevy these things, I will cut your balls from your little tiny body," she said, her voice cold but calm.

Mickey heaved a sigh, "Fucking Russians."

Yevy looked up at his mother with an expression this time. From his tone and a jerk of his head towards him, Mickey could tell he was asking something insulting about him.

"Ay," he warned gruffly, before realizing that, one; he didn't know what the kid was saying, two; it only sounded insulting, and three; he was only an eight-year-old boy.

Svetlana rolled her eyes at him, then turned to her son, placing both hands on his shoulders now. Mickey didn't bother trying to understand what she said, but knew it was a dismissal because Yevy looked Mickey up and down judgmentally once more, then left to what used to be his father's room.

Mickey pointed at his door, frowning. "What's his problem?"

"He is result of terrible father figure," she retorted coldly, then walked into the kitchen to retrieve a gym bag. "Closest he came to a real one was Orange Boy."

Mickey's throat seemed to close up at the mentioning of Ian, even if it was by his old title. He just dragged his teeth over his lip in silence, his fingers itching to reach back for the photo in his pocket.

There were only three important aspects to his life; one was currently in the shower, the other was too hard to mention, and that left only the third. He chose to focus on that – survival.

"About the business," he premised, but Svetlana cut him off.

"We have business no longer," she said, "Clips are much harder to make money off when hitman is out of prison."

"What about the girls?"

"No more whores."

He cocked a brow. "Why the fuck not?"

"Sasha," was all she said about it and then there was a knock at the door.

"Fuck off," Mickey said, wanting to know more about his lost title as a pimp. "What about Kevin? Son of a bitch said he'd take care of things."

Svetlana dismissed this with a poised wave of her hand. "He is worst fucking pimp I have ever seen."

Another knock at the door sounded and Mickey rolled his eyes angrily. "Fuckin' coming!" He shouted, heading over to it reluctantly.

"We talk more later, yes?" It wasn't a question. "I leave with Yevy now for karate lesson. _Yevgeny!_ " She called out, then added some Russian shit that he didn't understand. The boy appeared quite instantly, dressed up in that white karate attire shit.

"Wait, you're leaving?" He asked, fumbling with the locks while keeping his eyes on his wife and child. "We ain't talked about shit all."

"We speak later," Svetlana said definitively. "We leave now," she said heading for the back door and leaving Mickey with the front one that had two more bolts to unlock. Some things never change. He rolled his eyes, more in annoyance with Lana than the locks, muttering to himself, "Fuck me," before finally springing the door open.

The sight of Ian Gallagher standing on his porch wasn't one he expected. His throat tightened and a light feeling entered his chest at the thought Ian had come to see him. Had Mandy told him he was out today?

"Hey, Firecrotch," he said.

Ian just stood there, looking as shocked and frozen as Mickey felt, though Mickey was far better at hiding it. It was clear then that Ian was not there to see him, and his heart ached.

"You look good, Gallagher."

And he did, in fact, look good – better, even. His hair was gelled back nicely, his clothes were more fitted, his physique infinitely improved… Mickey hadn't thought that possible until he looked him up and down, not able to resist dragging his thumb over his lip in that way he used to right before they had sex.

Still, Ian said nothing, though his eyes finally moved, glancing from Mickey's mouth back to his eyes.

Mickey took the incentive to open the door further, but walked away in fear of him not taking up the invitation. He was glad to hear footsteps in his wake. "You want something to drink?" Mickey asked as he swaggered through the kitchen to the fridge and opened it up for the first time in seven years.

He felt Ian's presence as he stood behind him, but did his best not to forget to breathe. "We ain't got much... Milk, juice… Some weird Russian shit—"

"Beer," he said hoarsely.

"On your meds? No fucking way." Mickey glanced up to see the look Ian gave him. After a moment's hesitation, Mickey pulled one out, and only one, opening it the old fashioned way against the edge of the table so the cap went flying.

Mickey took the first mouthful then extended it towards Ian who took it from him by the neck of the beer to avoid Mickey's touch. He took more than one mouthful.

"Ay," Mickey blurted out, "Slow down, Dean Martin, I'm the one who's been in the can seven fucking years."

Ian stopped drinking a little suddenly, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He handed it back to Mickey who was more interested in Ian's tongue as he licked at his lips than the rest of the beer.

"So you hear about my release, or are you here for my sister?"

"I came to see Mandy." Ian looked mostly at the ground, only glancing at him briefly. "I didn't know you were out."

Mickey already figured that out, but it still killed him somehow to hear the words confirmed. "She's in the shower," he said, handing Ian back the beer. "Mandy! Got a visitor here!"

They heard a muffled reply that sounded something similar to "fuck off," but they couldn't be sure.

There was a silence that feel between them. Mickey had a million things he wanted to say but none of them consisted of small talk. "…How've you been?"

Ian looked at him, eventually nodding. "Good."

He took another swig, handing it back to him and still they didn't touch. "Better?"

"Yeah."

"And the meds… You ain't off them again, or any stupid shit like that, right?"

Ian stilled the beer at his lips. "Right." He took another mouthful.

"And uh… What are you doin' these days?" _Did you wait for me_ , he wanted to ask.

Ian's eyes finally locked with Mickey's own. It was clear he wanted to say something and Mickey licked at his bottom lip in anticipation. Ian put down the beer.

"Mickey—" Ian started, but Mandy had to interrupt, it seemed.

"Hey! What the hell were you shouting about, Mick?" She appeared in the kitchen suddenly, soaking wet and wrapped up in a towel. Mickey had never been less enthused to see his sister and he turned towards the fridge to hide his distaste.

"Hey, Mandy," Ian said warmly, already a warmer greeting than Mickey got.

"Holy shit, Ian," Mandy breathed and broke into a sudden grin. It didn't matter that her bare ass peaked out or that her nipples poked through the towel, she still embraced Ian like an ox would a brick wall. Or a woman would a fairy like Ian.

Mickey took out another beer from the fridge and focused on breaking it open instead of them, fearing whatever look he had would betray him in hiding his… feelings.

"You here for me?"

"Thought we could get a coffee or something before my shift starts."

"Fuck – um, yeah, just give me a second," she said already walking into one of the bedrooms, leaving Mickey and Ian alone together once again. With Ian's back still turned, Mickey felt comfortable enough to look over every inch of his body. He thought he'd get a hard on at the sight of his nice ass and strong arms, but it just killed him, instead.

Mickey chose to say nothing, figuring if that if Ian had something to say, he could fucking say it. Luckily, Mandy came back out, her new clothes now damp and her hair tied back. "You two done chatting, or can we go?"

Mickey saw Ian smile weakly and followed her out the door, not even a glance Mickey's way. Before Mandy closed the door behind her, she flipped Mickey off behind Ian's back, and Mickey flipped her off in return. Mickey drained the beer until froth rolled down his chin. It was to be the first of many beers he would have that day.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Catching up with Mandy was only supposed to last a third untouched coffee that he'd be too numb to consume. He was supposed to learn about her new waitressing job, avoid talking about the abusive boyfriend, badmouth Lip a little bit, and be done. The sight of Mickey threw him.

Since sharing that beer, the one Mickey had held with his "fuck" tattooed hand, Ian needed another. And another and another. He called in sick for work; they let him off easy while Martinez covered for him, as Ian had done for everyone else countless times in the past. Mandy talked, or mumbled, the basics over those few beers and somehow the conversation lasted most the night.

She only brought up Mickey once, when she asked him if he wanted to talk about it. Ian had smiled and said "no" flatly. He couldn't think about Mickey; he couldn't talk about him, couldn't even look at him. The sight of him made him feel nothing at all. At least, that's what he told himself, and it was bullshit.

After that, it was enough to convince Ian to get shitfaced drunk. Mandy got high, but even then, Ian knew to refrain. But he came home like that – completely shitfaced, stumbling through the back door at 3AM, knocking his shin painfully against a chair and making a racket loud enough to wake up their new neighbors. People came and went from Kev and V's old place like a brothel.

All Ian wanted to do was go upstairs, shower and sleep. And vomit – he really needed to vomit. Ian had not allowed himself more than one beer a day for years, now. It was just better that way, but it meant his tolerance was really low. Vomit. That's all he wanted to do…

"Where've you been?"

Ian held onto the chair for stability. He looked up and that alone made him dizzy. Still, he was able to make out Joaquin standing behind the counter, resting his arms against it with a glass of water in his hands. The sight of him was disappointing, but the water looked real good.

"Oh, hey," Ian said lamely.

"Where have you been?" He repeated more clearly.

Ian smirked lazily like Joaquin usually did. "What's it to you?" He was drunk, but he wasn't too out of it to notice the concerned look on his pretty face.

Quin set aside his water. "Martinez called, wanted to see if you were feeling any better because you skipped work today."

Ian was more interested in the water than what he was saying, so Ian started staggering over towards it slowly, managing to keep some sense of balance.

"Ii, are you feeling okay?" He asked, looking overly worried now.

Ian walked around the bench and stopped in front of him. He thought about it long and hard, sighing tiredly as he did. "No."

Quin probably wanted to talk more, or some shit, but Ian's mouth pressed hard against his made that impossible. What he'd thought about long and hard had made him hard. Joaquin pulled away quite instantly and Ian resisted the urge to sighed with disinterest. "Ian, what's going on with you?"

Ian dismissed his concern by gripping a handful of his black hair and shoving his tongue deep down Quin's throat. At first he tried to stop it, but Ian was stronger than he was and held him there until he finally gave in. Didn't take long.

Ian could already feel Quin's dick pressed up against his leg, and he tried to pull off his clothes, but that felt like a waste of time. So Ian turned him around and shoved him by the hips against the bench, spacing a hand on his back for balance.

"Jesus, _mierda,_ Ian."

"Shut up."

Ian unzipped his pants, slipped down his briefs and started helping Quin with his own, more out of impatience than anything else. Ian gripped onto his hips, knowing there'd be bruises there the next morning, and eased himself into his ass, slow at first. Then he closed his eyes and prayed that he wouldn't speak. The less he talked, the better.

Ian ground his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed further and started pounding into him. He was starting to feel better, good almost. So good, a pure smile appeared on Ian's face for the first time in a long time.

" _Ian,"_ Quin groaned.

He opened his eyes. His smile disappeared. And his dick went soft.

"…Ian?"

Quin fucking _had_ to speak. He gritted his teeth and with an unreasonable anger, pulled out and zipped up his flaccidity. Ian left him there and yanked open the fridge door for a beer. He felt Quin's hands wrap around his waist and it made him sick, so sick he put the beer back. "Want me to try and suck you off?" Quin murmured with his lips pressed against Ian's neck.

"No. I'm good." He took the beer anways.

"Y'sure?" Quin kissed him again and Ian couldn't take it, though he couldn't quite understand why he couldn't. Ian removed himself from Quin's hold and he propped himself atop the bench, a challenge he didn't expect to be so difficult even drunk.

Quin moved over to him and placed his hands on Ian's knees gently. He was glad to have that beer as a barricade, but it came at the price of puking more later. Worth it.

Ian took a swig. "Yeah, I'm sure, Quin."

Quin's brow furrowed with concern. "What's going on with you? Hm? What is it? The way you're acting, it's like…"

Ian stared at him impassively. "Like what?"

Quin didn't have the chance to offer up any embellishments because his beautiful train wreck of a sister stumbled through the back door as he had previously, only with company; some big guy with a gay piercing, black hair and tattoos as sleeves. Debbie gave off a false high laugh when she entered, having not seen Ian with Quin.

The stranger was biting his lip, looking Debbie up and down like a juicy steak, and then turned his stupid expression onto Quin whose hands were far up Ian's thighs.

His eyes went wide and he took a step away from Debbie. "Ay, whoa, if this is what you're into, I ain't up for that faggy shit."

"What? Ew! That's my brother, you moron."

He laughed and somehow even that made him sound dumb. "Shit, I didn't know you were Mexican."

"Jesus," Ian muttered as he slid off the counter and past Joaquin. His vision dimmed black for a second from the booze and he gripped onto the counter to keep himself standing. He had to stop himself from shoving Quin away when he put his hands on him again, as though to help. "Easy, Ian."

He was always so calm and nice. Why did he have to be so nice all the time?

Debbie and that guy of hers started arguing, or at least Debbie started yelling at him and he just stood there looking dumbfounded. Christ, the douchebag had a face tattoo.

"Mommy?"

Chaos continued to slowly ensue. Ian looked up in his still foggy state and saw little Lizzie coming down the stairs into the kitchen with Liam standing behind her, two protective hands over her scrawny shoulders.

"Ay, _amorcito,_ what are you doing out of bed?" When Quin let go of him to get to Lizzie, Ian found that he was able to breathe again. He noticed the look of annoyance appear on Debbie's face at her daughter's presence, then the smile she forced onto her lips as she started talking her back into bed. Her one-night-stand weighed in, going on about how kids was a deal breaker for him, but that he'd give her tonight, or some shit, and that seemed too sober him up some. "Alright, time for you to go," Ian said and began ushering him out the door.

"But we were just—"

"Yeah, I know what you were just gonna do. Get out," Ian told him dismissively, then closed the door on him before he could say anything more. The chaos did not dampen and just when he was about to take Lizzie, still reluctant to leave, up to bed, his ass started vibrating with a call. "What?"

" _Jeez, hello to you too, big brother."_ It was Carl.

That surprised Ian, considering there was no pre 'you have a collect call from a state prison' bullshit, and the fact that it was past prisoner's curfew. "A little late, Carl, but Liam's up if you wanna say hi."

He heard him sigh over the phone. _"This late? Nah, he'll wanna talk hours – he should be sleeping… I'll call again for him tomorrow. How is he?"_

"Jealous he's not in there with you."

" _Ha! Good kid… Anyways, that ain't why I'm calling."_

"How are you even able to?"

" _Aw, you know me. Special circumstances for friends of the brother in my hood, you get me?"_ Ian could hear the smirk in Carl's words.

"Yeah, I get you," Ian said dismissively, not at all understanding what he was saying, but having little patience to translate it. "You need help, or something?" He didn't know how he possibly could, but for Carl, he'd do anything.

" _Nah, man, I'm protected. It's all good in here. It's your situation out there I'm callin' about… Didn't know if you'd wanna hear it or if you'd even give a shit, but Mick's out."_

"Really," he said flatly.

" _Like I said big brother, didn't know if you'd wanna hear it, but he got out today. Didn't want you to be blindsided now that you're back in the Southside."_

Ian felt his throat go dry. His stomach churned and he knew it wasn't because of the alcohol. He tried to swallow and his voice came out cold. "It's not my business, anymore," he said, "That part of my life is done," he claimed, "For good." Ian could barely swallow his own bullshit that time.

After that, he went outside to heave.

…

That night, Mickey didn't get a wink of sleep. Seven years of sharing a cell with another dude, usually with a shiv of some kind under his pillow, and his first night back in a real bed with some real privacy, and he can't fucking sleep. He even tried wanking off, but after rubbing and tugging for a solid hour with little results, he gave up and made himself some Lucky Charms. They were always his favourite.

At least he could enjoy that much.

He was halfway through his breakfast when Svetlana came in wearing those tight yoga pants again with a jersey to match and that little Nike logo over the left breast, and slapped a pile of envelopes down on the table.

"The fuck is this?"

"Bills," she said, taking his dirty dishes up to the kitchen for him. "You live here, you contribute or you leave." She looked at him in an unfriendly way. "Your choice, prison boy."

"Stop calling me that." He grabbed the bowie knife closest to him and opened up the first envelope. "Jesus… Don't you have a job? Says here electric's three fuckin' weeks late."

"You'd be surprised how little income is when shithead husband is in prison."

He opened another. "Yeah? Because those hits seemed to be the only fucking thing keeping this place afloat." The next was an overdue hospital bill for Yevgeny's broken arm – clearly that had long passed since Mickey hadn't seen shit on that kid's arm.

"Yes, and now we have nothing," Svetlana said, "Nothing but shit pay from bartending job."

Mickey opened up another one, his breath catching from the serious amount of zeroes attached to that 3. "And what about the girls?" Mickey knew he'd already asked, but he needed to know, even if it meant getting him even angrier over an unsolvable problem.

"Sasha."

Mickey's eyes rolled in annoyance. "Yes, I fucking know that much. Try elaborating."

"Business is gone. Talking of it does shit all," she said, a hand back on her hip.

"Humor me."

Svetlana sighed, the most emotion she'd expressed since he got home, then returned to making what looked like oatmeal. "You remember Sasha, yes?"

"How can I forget?"

"We were only competition for her all those years ago, back when son was only baby bump and you were in-the-closest boy fucker. And you fucked our business when you fucked hers. With you gone, we lost security because you, stupid prison pimp, were the only protection we had for our girls."

Mickey cocked a brow. "That a compliment?"

She gave him a colder look than before and held it until he couldn't help but break the eye contact. She returned to her oatmeal, pouring milk into the pan. "No protection, no customers. The girls that did stay were underpaid. All the money we did make was either stolen or never handed over to begin with."

He sighed, rubbing his thumb against his brow that now had a scar running through it from back when he first got into prison. "What about Kevin? He had a gun – _my_ fucking gun, last I was here."

"He is worst fucking pimp ever to hold one. He owns bar, nothing else. Sasha took the whores back while he stands there with his tiny dick in his hands." From what he remembered Ian telling him, Kevin certainly didn't have a tiny dick; Mickey remembered getting jealous over that little trip down memory lane for Ian.

"Fuck me," Mickey muttered as he leaned against framing to the kitchen with nothing else he could say.

"Not if you paid me millions of dollars."

"It's a figure of speech," he sneered, overlooking the irony to that statement.

"I know this." She started serving up the oatmeat into a bowl. It wasn't until she'd set it on the table with a cup of orange juice that she spoke again. "And you should know this: I am no longer whore. I am legitimate business woman bartender. I am honest woman, now."

He frowned, cocking his head to the side. "Can ex-skanks even be honest women?"

Mickey didn't know where the knife came from, but she held up a big one, silver and shiny. She probably used it on carrots and apples more than people in his absence. "You speak disrespectfully in front of Yevgeny and you are gone."

"Got it."

"You speak disrespectfully _to_ Yevgeny and you are gone."

"Yep."

"You hurt him—"

"I don't hurt kids."

She stared at him coldheartedly. "You hurt him, I stab you with screwdriver when you sleep." He didn't even know what to say to that, so he just looked at her with clear bewilderment, then moved past her to get a beer. Svetlana wasn't done, it seemed. "You teach him curse words, give him weapon, neglect him, show him gun collections—"

"I'm gone," he finished, kicking the fridge closed. "Jesus fucking Christ, I get it." He twisted the top off and took a swig.

She appeared even tempered, even after coming up to him and backhanding him across the mouth with her ringed hand. "Fuck! How could a tiny fucking diamond hurt so fucking much?"

"That boy is my life."

He never was very good at hurting girls. Kids were off limits, but girls? Something about them made it more difficult, even for guys like Mickey. Though he licked away the little bit of blood that shined his lip, he still returned no hand against her and nodded in – what? – agreement, or understanding, or some shit. Fact was, he got it.

"I leave now," she said.

Mickey watched her go, taking a gym bag with her. "…What?" He set aside his beer and practically chased her to the door. He closed it when she opened it. "Hold on, you can't just fucking leave. What about the kid?"

"Benefit of prison fuckhead coming home. Free babysitter." She opened the door again. "I go to work, now." With that, she was gone, leaving Mickey alone with his son somewhere in the house. For the day. Just the two of them.

"Fuck."

And Mandy. It was barely a second later when she walked in wrapped up in another towel that showed off to much to make him comfortable. "Hey, asshole," she said as a greeting.

A bad night, a bad morning, for some reason he wasn't in the mood. "Alright, what's your fucking problem?"

She started collecting shit out of a suitcase next to the couch. Bra's and shit. "What's my problem?" She smirked through her words, though didn't bother to look at him. "That it's been over twenty-four hours now, and you still haven't talked to Ian."

He just stared at her. "You're kidding."

Mandy bundled up her clothes and stood up straight with them held to her chest. She looked far from humorous. "Shit, my bad. It's been twenty-four hours and _seven years_ and you still haven't talked to him." She looked him up and down, sneering so she looked like the old Mandy Milkovich he grew up with (even without the grunge attire and the piercings). "My problem is that my big brother's a fucking pussy."

When he said nothing, she left to go get changed while he just stood there. A tight knot formed in his gut and all he could do was stand there in the middle of his house like an asshole and fight the urge to do something gay like let out his feelings.

Mandy came back out within a few minutes, fully dressed in her nicest pair of non-ripped jeans and a Clash t-shirt, about to make her own breakfast. She'd covered up her bruises as best she could, which wasn't saying much. When she saw him still standing there, he immediately averted his eyes and slumped back down into a chair at the table with his beer. He brought it to his lips but couldn't bring himself to take a sip. "…How is he?"

Then he took a swig. He'd earned it.

"What, you care, now?" Mandy asked, smirking like a complete bitch.

"No, I don't fucking care."

"Whatever," Mandy muttered and began chewing in on her own bowl of Lucky Charms. They used to fight each other for the last bowl when they were kids. She'd end up with purple nipples and him with scratches all over his face and bruised balls, but it always made the Lucky Charms taste better, as though they'd earned it.

Mickey watched her eating and regretted his immediate snapping at her, knowing now he couldn't ask about Ian again without seeming like a total pussy. "You staying?"

Mandy nodded and said through her mouthful, "A few days till I can find a job, unless Lana asks me to stay longer for Yevy." She smirked down at her cereal. "Think you can handle him for an entire day?"

"Sure I can," he said, though the doubt in his voice was clear. Mickey started tonguing the corner of his mouth in discomfort, looking away every time their eyes made contact. "I mean how much fucking time will I actually have to spend with the kid? He'll just stay in his room until she comes back…" He grimaced. "How often do kids need to piss and eat and shit, anyways?"

Mandy grinned again. "Who do you think the fucking oatmeal's for, dumbass? Yevy!"

Mickey's eyes went wide in a mixture of anger and fear. "What the fuck are you doing?" He hissed.

Mandy just shrugged then finished off her cereal. "I gotta ditch."

"For fucking what?" He had never been so desperate for his sister to be with him.

She spun on her heels and started backtracking towards the front door with a purse slung over her shoulder. "Job interview." She grinned again, this time more wryly than before, then nodded towards something behind him. "Lets see how long you two last before he makes a run for it. My guess is Svet will have your balls in a jar by tonight."

He flipped her off.

When Mickey turned back around in his chair he wished he'd given her worse than just the finger – at the very least made a jibe about her bruises. The thing she'd nodded to turned out to be the kid. _His_ kid, already sitting across from him with his hands laced together and a cool look in his eyes.

"Fuck," he breathed, not quite expecting anyone to be there. It annoyed him. "Make some noise for christ's sake! You're silent as a fucking ninja."

The boy just stared at him. He looked neither nervous nor angry nor anything remotely positive or pleasant. He gave off nothing; the kid didn't even move a muscle. His bowl of oatmeal sat before him but he just kept staring at Mickey as though he was supposed to say something. Christ, the kid didn't even blink.

And it was weird… Seeing his own blue eyes on someone that wasn't him, or that hair. If it weren't for the fact that he was clean, he would've looked exactly as Mickey had at his age. Mickey frowned. "How old are you again?"

The boy said nothing.

Mickey couldn't hold the eye contact. It was less stressful making deals with fucking backstreet tweekers than it was with him. "You're eight now, right?" Mickey paused in wait for a response but none came. " _Eight?"_ Mickey repeated, only more clearly with eight fingers held up.

Though he made no such response, he did lower his chin slightly so his cool expression became more of a glare.

Mickey hated the way the kid stared at him. He started chewing on his lip, looking everywhere else but at him. "…You don't understand a fucking word I'm saying, do you?"

He didn't respond.

Mickey tried to ignore him. He picked up the pile of bills and did his best to focus on the increasing debt he'd have to pay off, but even that was more comfortable for him than that kid _still_ staring at him. Mickey kept glancing up at him over the letters. "Fuck it," he muttered, shoving the letters aside and leaning his arms against the table. "Why don't you go… play… somewhere else, hm?" He even tried a smile.

"Fucking idiot," the boy said with a coldhearted Russian scowl. He didn't know how it was a type-cast Russian scowl, but it was a fucking Russian scowl. Yevy got up from the table with his oatmeal and poured it down the sink.

"You speak English?"

"Of course," his son said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Every word he spoke was still thick of his Russian side, but he still spoke better than his mother. "I have lived here all my long life."

Mickey gave him a look. "Your long life of eight fucking years?" He drawled flatly.

Yevy washed out his bowl and made himself some cereal instead, then sat back down. "Eight years of English and Russian. Eight years of being prison fuckboy," he said, "Who do you think is wiser, hm?"

Mickey could've threatened him, or parented him or some shit, but the shock of everything about his son kept him mute. Hell, his mouth hung open a little bit.

The boy took a bite then chuckled. His voice hadn't even broken yet, but he still came across as intimidating… "Lucky Charms is the way to go, I tell you." He leaned in closer while Mickey just stared. "I love my mother. I would kill for her, but her oatmeal? Fucking shit," he said.

Mickey sat back, quite literally taken aback. He could see this boy was wide beyond his years.

It wasn't until Yevy pulled out a packet of smokes from his pocket and jammed it between his teeth that Mickey finally found his voice.

"Hey—" Mickey snapped, "Hey, c'mon, what the fuck do you think you're doin'?" Mickey stood up and walked around the table to his son so that he could tower over him as well as pluck the cigarette from his lips. "You're just a kid, stick to fucking cereal," he parented, then smacked him up the head. "Give me your lighter."

The boy glared up at him, snaking his fingers back together.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "What, are you a fucking Bond villain? Hand it over."

Yevy held his stare darkly, even as he fished out the lighter and slapped it into Mickey's extended hand.

"Jesus," Mickey muttered as he lit up the cigarette and took a drag. "You really are a Milkovich."

Still glaring, the boy returned to his cereal and Mickey suddenly felt a lot better about babysitting this kid for an entire day. Hell, they might even bond.

…

 **Author's Notes:** If you haven't already guessed, this is a slowburn. So if you lack the patience, then that sucks because you're missing out. For those who bothered to stick around: thank you. I'm honored.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It was Friday. An important day for the Gallagher's, or at least more important in comparison to every other day of the week. Every Friday night, the Gallagher's – the ones not legally detained in a facility of some kind – returned to the Gallagher household and ate dinner together. When described, it sounds small and insignificant, but it isn't. No matter what was happening in their lives, no matter who was fighting with whom over whatever bullshit, they showed up. It was an unspoken obligation that mourned the day they lost Frank.

Or that celebrated the day they lost Frank. It really depended on your perspective.

Personally, it was what Ian waited for all week, the one he'd hold his breath just to get to, and yet somehow that day settled in his stomach like the plague. It just went on; work was work, a little intense maybe but he felt completely numb to it; he and Quin reconciled that morning with a kiss that Ian liked because of the taste of Lucky Charms lingering on his lips; the day went on; the day ended.

Ian drove up to the elementary school when dark approached, parked and went inside, making certain to lock it. He barely got up the steps to the front doors when Lizzie came rushing out of it with a small duffle bag being dragged at her heels wearing a leotard and her hair in a tightly pinned up bun. "Ian!" She called out all excited-like, as though he wasn't there to pick her up every other Friday night.

He stopped and smiled at her, amused at the little girl's efforts to run at him with the duffle bag slowing her down while making no effort to help her. "Hey Yamaguchi," he said, still smiling widely so the creases formed at his mouth. "How was the prancing?"

Lizzie rolled her eyes at him before taking the bag with two hands and continuing to drag. "Yamaguchi was a figure skater, _Ian_ , everyone knows that."

Still smiling, he furrowed his brow and bobbed his head. "Hm… Alright, lets go," he said simply, heading back to the car.

"Ian!" Lizzie called after him and he looked back at her mildly. "A little help?"

"Hm," Ian murmured again, now scrunching up his mouth to the side in thought. "No, I think you got it."

Lizzie stomped her foot. "Ian!" She huffed. "…Please?"

He faked grievance. "If I must." Ian walked over and leaned down to pick up the bag. Before he could sling it over his shoulder, she kissed his cheek first and he responded by tugging at her bun then kicking her in the behind gently with his boot. "Move it."

They made the regular conversation, diminished through regularity as they neared the car. "So what did you learn at school today?"

He opened her door first, then went around to his own, tossing the bag in the back carelessly. "Nothing," she stated.

"Nothing?"

"That's what I said: nothing."

Ian bobbed his head rather indifferently. "Glad to know you're just another indictment of a public school education. Now we don't have to bother with college."

"You didn't," Lizzy retorted rather sassily for a girl her age. It caused Ian to smile reluctantly before they both got in the car and he started it. Normally he'd ask all the other predictable questions, but to Lizzy's confusion he didn't and she couldn't help but wonder why. They were halfway back to the Gallagher house when she asked him, "Is something wrong with you?" She hadn't yet developed the natural skills of subtlety. "You're being weird."

"Am I?" He shrugged his lips. "Hm." Perhaps if it were anyone else, he wouldn't have elaborated, but she was young and simple and therefore could not pick up on subtext, even if he did consider her advanced for her age. "I guess I'm just a little distracted tonight, Lizzy. I've got some—something on my mind. It's, uh, it's like…"

"Like what?"

"Okay," he tried to think of an example and suddenly his monosyllabic responses ceased, "You know when you're in class and you're coloring in stuff and you get the red crayon and you like it a lot because it's the best color available and you get to draw fire and shit – fuck, don't ever swear, Lizzy – but then the teacher makes you give it to one of the other kids because you're using it too much or some shit. And at first you don't care, right? Because it's just a stupid crayon, and then you pick up a blue crayon and you figure that it's just as good, but then you look across the room and you see the other kid with _that_ red crayon and you start to think… Like, that was my fucking crayon."

"I don't like the blue crayons," she said matter-of-factly. "You only get to draw the sky and water with it. But I like using the red crayons, only there aren't any ones left anymore."

Ian glanced only briefly from the road to her, barely aware of how far they'd already driven. "Why's that?"

"I don't know... I think Mrs. Martin took them away because everyone kept fighting over them, so she said they weren't good for us."

"Huh." Ian frowned, not certain how to fit that into his metaphor.

"All I know is they're gone, now."

Ian shrugged then eased into a right turn onto one of the side streets. "Well maybe they'll come back, Liz."

"Maybe," she said quietly, not sounding so certain. They drove in silence for a small while, then from the corner of Ian's eye he could see her own wide and innocent yet somehow completely interrogative eyes staring back up at him. "Did _your_ red crayon come back, Uncle Ian?"

"Um…" He wasn't sure how to answer that, no longer comfortable with the subtext's change into, well, text, and so took great comfort in the appearance of the Gallagher house up ahead. With Joaquin's car parked in their driveway, he settled in front of the house. Ian went to kill the engine but his fingers halted over the keys where a beer opener dangled from the chain.

Lizzy undid her seat belt and opened the door, but didn't get out when she looked back to see her uncle still with his hand on the wheel. "Something wrong again, Ian?"

He couldn't quite answer that honestly seeing he didn't quite know the answer himself. But she was a kid, so it didn't really count as lying when he did. "No, nothing's wrong, I just gotta pick up something I forgot." He smiled that hollow smile he'd mastered over the past seven years. It truly was very hollow.

He shoved her gently by the shoulder, lost the smile and jerked his head towards her exit. "Beat it," he said, "I'll see you inside in a couple minutes," he said.

"But it's Friday night."

"I know. I won't miss a thing. I promise."

"Okay," she replied and hopped out of the car, no inquiries necessary. Ian watched her get inside the house first before driving off. He didn't have a destination in mind, but it seemed there was nothing at all in his mind except the thought of damned red crayons. And beer. He wanted a beer.

That was easy enough to find, though it didn't take much searching. After that he just kept driving until he stopped in front of a place he recognized; a place he hadn't been to in years.

He parked and ignored the high chances of his car being stripped for parts, and instead walked up the stairs until he was where he felt he needed to be, the top floor of an abandoned building.

Ian raised his chin so when he looked around the place he could familiarize himself with the past. He looked at the cement floor covered in rat droppings, at the series of smashed windows, the strewn bottles, blunted joints and used condoms. And he smiled.

Most of the time, he and Mickey would come up there as a meeting point and would get drunk or high, then fuck. Other times, he'd find Mickey up here shooting off rounds, then after Ian kept his mouth shut about what the proper gun stance looked like, they would get drunk and fuck. But there were other times, one in particular that clouded Ian's thoughts.

It was a long time ago, back when no one knew there was something wrong with Ian, only that he was acting completely high all the time. He did a lot of crazy shit, some of it completely strange but unassuming like when he collected dozens and dozens of beer bottles – plastic bags full of them, really – and brought them up here to this exact floor. It was during another one of Mickey's target shootings with his Glock 17, aiming at dented beer cans mostly. Ian remembered how he looked that day, his hair all greased back, his grey fleece jacket on that fit him really good. A clean shave.

Ian remembered that even after he showed his face with a garbage bag full of beer bottles slung over his shoulder, Mickey didn't deem him more than a glance. It was only after Ian showed up with the second bag that Mickey did a double take. "What's all this?"

Ian had only grinned in response before retrieving the third bag of bottles. He remembered then that that fourth bag had been what brought Mickey to a complete stopping point, even going so far as to holster his gun down the back of his pants and jut watch as Ian began to go through the process of setting up each and every bottle along the windowsills. And the cinder blocks. And all the parts of the floor the sun could touch. At the time, Ian couldn't understand Mickey's look of perplexity or the rephrased "Ian, what the fuck's all this?" only in a slight variation.

"What?" Ian had replied innocently. "You mentioned you needed more bottles for target practice."

"Yeah, more as in more, not a fucking liquor store of them, Tweaker. There ain't enough bullets in the world let alone a shit-ass piece like this."

"Oh no-no-no-no-no, _these_ _ones_ are for target practice," he said, setting six aside, "The rest are for—" he stopped to look at his watch with a flick of his wrist, "—eleven minutes from now."

Mickey had just looked around in wait for more. Ian smiled widely, close-lipped so he looked kind of psychotic, or at the least unstable, which he was. "It's a sunset, Mick."

"So? There's one every fucking day."

That was all the conversation he could remember, after that all Ian really had was a dated memory of Mickey sitting with Ian reluctantly against the opposite wall, and the shine of orange and green around them when the sun hit all the bottles just right, but even that was foggy in Ian's mind. What he did remember, what he could never forget, was that feeling he had deep in his gut.

 _Then_ Mickey and Ian got drunk and fucked. 

Ian tilted his head back far and closed his eyes, remembering that gut feeling words would fail to describe and his smile grew. It wasn't until he opened his eyes and saw that there was no longer a sunset, nor any bottles, nor anyone else with him that his smile fell, only to be followed by a dull hollowed laugh that echoed against the walls.

Ian took out one of the beer cars, placing the others aside, and pulled out an old butterfly knife from deep within his pockets.

He switched open the blade, stabbed the can and chugged it until there was foam running down his ginger chin and a fizzing feeling up his nose. He didn't stop until the can was empty, then crushed it in his hand and threw it aside.

"Shotgun," he said to himself, loud enough for the walls to echo the word back to him as though he wasn't alone up there.

…

"Try dipping it in the salt."

"That's disgusting."

"No it isn't, it's required."

"Do you know how much sodium that is, man?"

"Dip it in the pepper next."

"That doesn't make it any better."

"Oh, but it does," Lip said conclusively before dipping one of his own fries into his little concoction then dropping it into his mouth. Liam continued to look at him with disgust.

Debbie interjected. "Just ear your fries, Liam."

"Fuck no! I don't wanna die fat at forty."

Lip snorted and ate another fry before returning to his burger. "Who gives two shits about how long you live for in this fucking world?"

"Ugh, can we stop with the negativity for just one fucking night, please? How many more times do we have to hear about your suck-ass job or your Neanderthal students?" Debbie snapped, then returned to her vege burger, the one that she always had and that Lip always sneaked a beef patty into because unlike the salt and pepper dip, that 'burger' truly was worthy of disgust.

"What, so we're only supposed to talk about positive shit from now on?"

"Try it for a change, Jesus."

Lip stopped mid-chew. "That doesn't give us much shit to talk about, Debs."

Joaquin laughed quietly from his place at the end of the table, an empty seat beside him and another empty one beside that for the two people who had yet to arrive. Joaquin paid it no mind. "You hear about those genetically modified male mice in Honolulu?"

Lip ate another fry, only mildly curious. "What about 'em?"

"A bunch of researches manipulated their gene patterns in their chromosomes so the male could produce offspring without any trace of the Y chromosome."

"Shit, really?" It didn't take much for Lip to be interested, even if it wasn't his field of science. Joaquin happened to be the only other one with the same fascinations, often remarked as boring by the Gallagher's (Ian included), or in this case gross. "How?"

Joaquin, equally intrigued by his own story, leaned in closer. "It's insane, they started by injecting immature sperm into the egg—"

"Gross, no, just stop talking," Debbie interjected again, though this seemed to be the general consensus based on the looks of Liam and even Lizzie who had just walked in without her miniature gym bag.

Lip grinned, happy to see his niece. "Look, here comes your own walking creation of immature sperm and egg."

She dropped it on the floor with a huff before taking her seat by Liam whose ear she flicked first. He flicked her back. Joaquin didn't finish swallowing before asking through a mouthful of fries and ketchup, "Where's Ian?"

Lizzie just shrugged and filled her plate up with more food than she could never possibly consume completely. Ambitious eyes, that girl had. "Said something about going back to pick something up. He said he'd only be a couple'a minutes."

A couple of minutes passed that resulted in Joaquin looking at the door quietly while Lip and Liam tried to explain what sperm was to Lizzie without actually having to explain it. It came to the point where Lip was drawing diagrams on a spare napkin. Debbie was texting some guy most of the time and more minutes continued to tick by.

Eventually he got up for a beer. "Lizzie, where'd he say he was goin' again?"

She shrugged and said, "I don't know," in that tone that meant she did know but wasn't comfortable saying. Joaquin looked to Lip as an alternative with a nervous furrow of his brow. "Has he seemed at all strange to you lately?"

Lip just shrugged as he filled up his plate with more food that was mainly reserved for Ian. Perhaps it was the look of continued concern on Quin's face that caused Lip to mimic it, clapping his hands free of salt and wiping them against his jeans first. "What, you think he's on something?"

Quin had no answer for that, merely gnawing at his lip in silence.

"Maybe it has something to do with Mickey being back," Liam suggested casually between mouthfuls.

"Who's Mickey?"

The kid didn't even look up from his cheeseburger, not noticing the sudden silence amongst the rest of them. Joaquin looked from Debbie, who suddenly more seemed interested in her surroundings than whomever she was trying to bone, to Lip and Lizzie who stared back at him. Lizzie returned to her food but Lip didn't look away, at least not until brotherly loyalty took rank and he opted for keeping his mouth shut about it.

The family returned to eating their dinner and their brief conversation about mice and immature sperm, all except Joaquin whose voice was replaced with this Mickey's name rolling around in his head.

…

Ian stumbled into the house the same way he had the night before, only his stumbles were caused by the lack of lights in the living room rather than any affects of alcohol. He'd made certain as to not lose his inhibitions this time, but it was still approaching 2am when he got back to the house, having skipped his first Friday dinner all year.

The living room was dark but he saw the lights switch on pretty quickly from upstairs, then Ian's jaw clenched at the sound of Quin descending. He stopped on one of the lower steps, shirtless and in a pair of Ian's checkered boxers, with his arms folded solemnly, leaning against the wall. Even now, he looked calm.

The sight of him caused a familiar dread he once felt back when Fiona was in charge. It partnered with intolerance. "Hey."

"Where've you been?"

"Out."

"You missed dinner."

Ian nodded in acknowledgement of that, then made to walk past him towards the kitchen where he poured himself some water.

"That's it?" Quin asked after him.

Ian rested against the counter and took a sip. He shrugged. "Am I supposed to say something?"

Joaquin laughed and even bitterly it still sounded warm. "How about telling me where you've been for the past six hours? How about an apology, for starters?"

"Okay, I'm sorry."

Joaquin snorted bitterly and tried to walk away, but Ian stopped him. He sighed internally. Thirty seconds of conversation and he was already tired of it. His bed with Quin seemed really appealing right now, but he'd settle for the floor upstairs.

"Hey." Ian held him tighter and turned him around. "Hey, I'm sorry, okay?" He tried a smile. "Truly."

Despite the cold look Quin continued to give him, Ian still felt it was safe to hold him closer, even going so far as to dig into the nape of his neck and kiss him gently.

"Are you off your meds again, Ian?"

Ian stopped kissing his boyfriend's neck. He thought for a moment that that good feeling in his gut could return, but it merely tightened into knots and he pulled away. "What?"

"Have you stopped taking your meds?"

Ian laughed shortly, certain this must be a joke. His smile fell short quickly and he took a step back. Not knowing how else to react, he kept it simple. "No. I haven't stopped taking my meds."

Joaquin didn't say anything, but his black eyes flickered from him to the floor in doubt.

"What, you don't believe me?"

Quin said nothing.

"Look, I downed the fucking lithium this morning with some water. You don't trust me, take a look for yourself," he said, fishing out his prescription that he always kept on him, slapping it into Quin's hand.

He could see that look of curiosity in Quin's eyes, that desire to count out that there were exactly 17 pills left, as there should be. That only made it worse and the knots in Ian's gut tightened, so he made for the stairs.

"Who's Mickey?"

Ian stopped with his foot on the very first step. He thought about saying something, about what he could say, but he decided there was nothing. So he just went upstairs to bed.

To be fair, it was a loaded question, one he couldn't begin to answer.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Mandy's phone started going off at around six in the morning. At first she thought it was her alarm, the one she'd forgotten to disable when she quit her waitressing job, but then it kept going off. First at six, then at six ten, then again at six twenty-five. It continued on that same trajectory until finally she answered it, having to collect the phone from the floor where she'd thrown it prior.

"What?" Manners didn't particularly matter to a Milkovich.

" _Bitch, where the fuck are you?"_

Mandy flinched at the familiarity of his voice and she said nothing.

" _You'd best tell me where you at—"_ There were other profanities attached that Mandy herself would hardly forget.

"I—uh…"

" _Listen, you filthy little whore—"_ Mandy just assumed that's what he said, she took the phone away from her ear for that part. _"—and when I find you, I'm gonna beat your tired ass into the ground, and whatever john you're blowing."_

He hung up before he could hear her say "Fuck you."

After that, she gave up on any chance of getting back to sleep and just smoked a fag instead. And then another and then another until her hands stopped shaking. By then it was about seven and she knew Yevgeny would still be asleep, so she settled for the only other thing she really had to keep her company. Obviously not being her brother.

The mornings were getting cold now, but she liked it and it didn't stop her from bundling up in her ugg boots, beanie and scarf out on the front porch with another cigarette and a book in her lap. More often than not, a highlighter was jammed between her teeth more than the cigarette.

She folded the book in half, turned it on its side and dragged the neon yellow over an entire paragraph, not caring that it leaked through to the other page. ' _Devotion to the truth is the hallmark of morality; there is no greater, nobler, more heroic form of devotion than the act of a man who assumes the responsibility of thinking._ '

Mandy thought that was kind of cool, but she didn't completely get it; hence the highlighter. It didn't stop her from reading on to the next chapter.

Mandy had just invested herself into Ayn Rand's words when she heard the front door open and shut behind her. She glanced around shortly to see it was Mickey and did her best to make the book seem unimportant and nonexistent. "What do you want?"

"The fuck you doing out here?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, dumbass?"

"Looks like you're reading. Which is why I'm askin'."

Mandy smiled up at him coldly. "Yeah you should try it sometime."

He took a step down the porch and leaned against the railing, lighting up his own smoke. "I got better things to do with my time."

She thought about mocking him, but didn't want to risk the retort. And he was far meaner than she could be – though they were both equally sensitive, and neither of them believed that of each other.

She returned to her book, but couldn't focus on the words with her brother by her side. Mickey took a swig of last night's beer and inhaled his cigarette deep until he tasted ash. "What you reading anyways?"

"A book, I told you," she muttered, the words on the page beginning to glaze over.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," he said after taking another deep swig of stale beer. "Next you'll be telling me the Pope's a catholic."

Mandy finished reading Sherlock last year. She'd shown up late to the diner a couple times because of those books. "What do you want, Mick?" She appeared a little on edge, making Mickey momentarily widen his eyes in judgmental exaggeration.

"Christ, can't a man enjoy a smoke on his own fucking porch anymore?" She continued to look at him, then he grazed his lip with his teeth. "Svetlana says there's no smoking in the house and I'm not in any position to fucking test her just yet." He appeared on edge all the same. "Besides I had something to ask you."

"What?" Mickey took a seat by her side, making certain to keep enough space between them. He offered her his beer and she just looked at it. "A little early, don't you think?"

He shrugged, taking another swig for himself. "You sure have changed."

"You haven't."

"Tryin'a say that's a bad thing?"

"Yes." Mandy turned the page but knew she hadn't read a proper word of the last one.

"Well it's good you changed," he said though she wasn't certain if that was insulting or not. "I'm serious," he kept on, "all that angsty shit was getting old, sis. And those piercings didn't look too good after the, what, eighth fucking infection you got? If it weren't for those bruises on your face, I wouldn't recognize you."

"Screw you," she muttered with little heart and hunched over closer to the words.

He chuckled slightly. "The book threw me off for a sec; almost got a glock out, thinking some homeless chic was crashing on my porch. What's the book anyways?"

"Nothing," she mumbled, holding it more tightly against her lap.

"Nothing? Hm, doesn't look that way to me." He yanked it from her before she could think about wrestling it from him. He lost her page. "'Atlas Shrugged'? The fuck is 'Atlas Shrugged'?"

"It's philosophy, asshole," she sneered, giving him a double hit to the arm which did very little to dissuade him.

"So it's about human rights and charity, or some shit?"

"That's philanthropy, dick breath, now give it back before I break that beer bottle over your empty fucking head." He laughed but gave her the book back. Mandy sat back down with her 'Atlas Shrugged' and opened it vaguely to where she was before. "You lost my page number," she muttered.

"Sorry." He wasn't.

"Did you want something else?" She snapped, glaring up at him as he stood over her. "Or did you come out here just to be an asshole?"

He didn't particularly notice the true extent of her annoyance, or he did and just didn't care. "Yeah, I wanted to ask you about something."

"Ask away…" She turned another page, not having paid attention to the last.

"Alright," he cleared his early morning throat, "Supposedly Sasha is the bitch who took my business and my girls and the food from my kid's fucking mouth, but no fucking way did that scrawny commie do it all her fucking self, and I know dick all. Who's her second in command?"

Mandy snorted. "Second in command? Okay, Army, why you asking me? Lana probably knows more than me."

He cocked a brow, though she was so focused on the book she didn't see it, nor did she have any desire to. "Bitch won't even give me the time of day. I know you know. Do me a favour."

She chewed the part of her lip where her piercing used to be, contemplating keeping her mouth shut. "You remember Afanasy?"

He looked blankly and unblinking. "Sure."

"He was the guy you stole your whores from in the first place."

"Where is he now?"

She closed the book again. "Dead. You'll find him in Greenwich Cemetery if you wanna give him fucking flowers or whatever, but he was replaced like five years ago after that by some Ukrainian guy who lived around here before that. A nobody, I guess… But he's the one who stole your whores when everyone realized you weren't coming back... His name's Boris."

"And where the fuck is he?"

She hesitated again, chewing at her lip yet again. But it was Mick; seven years had to have taught him something along the lines of wisdom. "Spends most nights at The Alibi, usually with some friends," she added as warning.

"Okay," he said and headed back inside.

Mandy got to her feet again, abandoning her book for the moment. "Wait Mick, you're not thinking about going over there."

He frowned. "Why the fuck else would I have asked?"

"The Alibi is a public place, Mick. A place cops go to nightly to break up brawls, and a place where he is connected."

"And why do you think he drinks there of all places, sis?" He looked at her like she was an idiot. "To rub his fucking success of my girls in my face, shaming the good Milkovich name. Christ, what would Pop say?"

Mandy gritted her teeth in frustration. "Did you hear the part about the fact that he's never alone, dumbass? He has fucking Russian sized bodyguards with him at all times. You'll get the prison shit beaten out of you, Mick, first by them and then a second time by the cops and then a third fucking time by State judicial courts law."

Mickey stared at her in an uncomprehending sort of way. "…Okay, I won't go."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's fucking morning. I'll head out later tonight when the Russkie will actually fucking be there," he said dismissively before closing the front door behind him, officially ending the discussion.

Mandy groaned quietly to herself, her knees shaking slightly from the cold. She thought about going after him, maybe yelling some more, but didn't see the point. There was never any changing Mickey's mind, there was only cleaning up after his path of incidental destruction.

Ultimately, she just sat back down on the porch and huddled up in her woolen clothing. Mandy blunted her old cigarette before throwing it into the dying rose bushes and opened her book again to a random page that felt to be close to where she was before. Her mind was too occupied with Mickey to even think about searching for her page, so she just read the words in front of her. _'I swear by my life and my love of it that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.'_ Mandy's fingers traced the outline of her healing cheekbone, and she did her best to shut out all the slurs of that phone call.

Mandy then massacred the sentence with her neon yellow highlighter.

…

Ian and Lip met up for coffee again back in the better part of town, but it wasn't at any Starbucks this time and was specifically in a place that allowed smoking for the truly dedicated citizens like Lip.

Ian only ever really smoked when the situation arose for it, but that morning he'd already gone through a pack and was now bumming smokes off Lip. To his displeasure, Lip noticed. "What the fuck's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?" He breathed out some smoke, partially directed into Lip's face.

Lip leaned back into his chair and looked around at the other people briefly. He took another drag, then leaned forward looking relatively intolerant. "Alright, I'm a little hungover so you'll forgive me if I'm lacking in the patience to beat around lithium's bush."

Ian frowned. They'd only been there five minutes.

"Simple fucking question, and if you answer it straight then we can do the conventional thing for once liked regular fucked up families and act like I never fucking asked it in the first place."

Ian continued to frown, though common sense had him predicting where this was going. "I was never very good at doing anything straight, Lip," he attempted. Lip smiled a little but shook his head. Ian dubbed out his cigarette into the ash tray and took a swig of his coffee. "Joaquin talk to you?"

"Yep."

Ian felt a surge of annoyance build up inside him that he had no intention of suppressing, depending on where this conversation would end up. "You really wanna get involved in this, man?"

Lip looked at him long and hard, before saying, "Fuck it." He lit up another cigarette first. "You off your meds again?"

"Nope."

Slowly, Lip nodded. "You on something else, then? Coke… Smack… Krank…"

Ian smirked. "You sound like you're reading a Spiderman comic aloud."

"Fuck me for showing some concern for my baby brother," Lip returned.

Ian's smirk fell and he stared down at his to-go cup, a cigarette still burning between his fingers. "No," he said in answer to his question and took another sip. "No, I'm not taking anything else."

"Okay," Lip said, leaving Ian to think that Lip truly believed him. But after only a few moments passed, Lip started in on it again. "Call it justified concern, but is that at all bullshit?"

Ian set his cup down a little forcefully while he looked sharply at his brother. "Justified concern? What, because I'm fucking smoking, or because your best buddy Quin says so? Jesus, Lip."

Lip leaned back into his chair again while taking another scan of the relatively empty coffee house that doubled as a pub. A fag between his own two fingers, he scratched at his brow with the subtle scar running through it before saying anything. "Quin raised some good points."

"Yeah, like what?"

"Like…" he hesitated, "Like the erratic behavior, the skipping work, the getting drunk, the hyperactive sex drive—"

Ian practically choked on his coffee. "The what?"

Lip rubbed his head with the palms of his hands, as though he were the one suffering through this conversation. "The uh… The inability to, uh… get your dick up?"

"Jesus Christ."

"Hey, I wanted to talk about relative theory and genetically fucked up mice from Hawaii last nigh, but you bailed."

Ian arched his brows, shaking his head slowly. "I'm not talking about this with you."

The two stared at each other a long time, unblinking like they were children in a staring contest. "Fuck it," Lip concluded then drank heavily from his coffee he personally made Irish.

It seemed the two of them relished in the sudden silence that followed where the only sound that erupted was from the crappy sound system that played a generic female folk singer of sorts. With the way Lip kept grimacing and rubbing at his temples, Ian predicted her voice was not a friend to the hangover. "Jesus Christ, can't an establishment have some fucking silence for once? The population's been enjoying it for centuries, are we that fucking blasé that we need music blasting through our ears all the goddamn time?"

"Welcome to the predictable consequences of doing tequila shots off college students," he said flatly.

Lip abandoned his coffee and smokes, and rubbed his palms against his eyes. "Nah, they were out of tequila, it was coconut rum instead."

Ian snorted and laughed at the image. Lip flipped him off with his eyes still squinted and rubbed. "Here I thought I was the fag," Ian murmured between sips, then finished off what was left and collected his coat from across the back of his chair. "Alright, you got any other questions for me, Benghazi, or am I free to leave?"

"You talked to Mickey at all?"

"Why?"

Lip shrugged, seeming too tired and hungover to properly care for the answer. "Just asking."

Ian shrugged his coat on. "I'm going to work," he said and left with that meaningless question up in the air. "I'll see you later, though," he called out.

"A little louder, maybe. You know, so my head literally explodes like that scene from Scanners."

Ian grinned as he opened the door and contemplated just taking his leave. " _Mama mama can't you see, what the army's done to me! They took away my favourite jeans, now I'm wearing army greens! Mama mama can't you see, what the army's done to me!"_

Lip flipped him off. Ian just grinned before the bell of the opening and closing door sounded behind him, though he didn't stop from whispering the chant to himself in his car.

…

"Mickey, please don't do this," Mandy said, though more with irritation than genuine concern. Mickey ignored her. It was easy to by this point, considering how she was on repeat.

The two of them stopped in front of The Alibi when a drunk that wreaked of piss and vomit (whose back was covered with it) stumbled past them. Mickey moved Mandy out of the way slightly and she looked at him funny. He sneered in response. "What, you think I want you touching Health Weekly over there, fuck off."

He was about to walk in when Mandy gripped his arm. "Mick."

"Jesus fucking Christ, stop. It's like having one of those fucking 'wake up' alarm clocks shoved up my ass."

"Mick, don't." The almost desperate look in her eyes made Mickey grin and snort rudely. "What's the matter, Mand, you worried about me?" She shoved him away but he nudged her with his elbow. "You scared for you big brother, huh? Grow some balls," he said, then made a flamboyant wave of his hand in dismissal.

She shoved him again. "Get yourself killed, the fuck do I care." Mandy went in without him and he just followed suit, returning to The Alibi and all the drunkards for the first time in seven long years. The place stank of stale beer, smoke, trash and cum; the people were just as ugly and disgusting as before with some new faces. Mickey grinned.

"Hey, the Milkovich returns!"

He nodded towards the bar. "What's up, Kev?" He hadn't changed much. Still with the shaved head and the facial hair, wearing one of his baggy black shirts, only now there wasn't a pair of twins attached to his hip. He started to pour him a beer.

Mickey took a seat by Mandy at the end of the bar who sulked quietly, hunched over her scotch and soda. He took his beer and downed half of it before giving another nod Kevin's way. "How's shit?"

"Same old," he said casually.

Mickey wiped the froth from his upper lip. "Still married?"

"Yes, I'm still married."

"Yeah, good for you," he said mildly, before finding there really was something different about the place. "Why's it so fucking quiet in here?"

The look Kevin gave him seemed to express disagreement. "It's loud as it's ever been." The music was the same, same volume, same generic crap; the chuckles and talk of drunken hood rats was just as he remembered. Realization seemed to strike in Kevin's eyes. "Oh, you know what I bet it is: Frank." He started pouring shots then gave a gesture to the bar. "Notice the absence of nonsensical conspiracy rants about government and capitalism."

"Must be it," Mickey muttered, then took another drink of that cool copper taste. "He cross the pond again, or did someone finally put the sorry son of a bitch out of our misery?"

Kevin said nothing, but handed him and his sister a shot. "Frank's dead, man."

"Huh," Mickey murmured between gulps of beer. He'd never had any particular fondness of the man, but even so. "His liver give?"

Kevin pressed his hands against the bar. "Actually someone put him out of his misery. You remember that crazy chic? Sammi?"

Mickey just stared at him darkly.

Kevin nodded curtly. "Right."

He felt Mandy staring at him and saw Kevin staring awkwardly at the bar that was still as sticky with old booze and whatever else as it was those seven years before. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time he was in here, but he knew Frank must've been there for it. Mickey raised his shot. "Fuck it, to Frank."

"To Frank."

The three of them took their shots which burned beautifully going down, and a few others that overheard followed suit until there was a commonly murmured 'to Frank' throughout the bar.

Mickey and Mandy set their shots down and he tapped the table. "Two more."

"On the house," Kevin said with a possibly friendly smile which Mickey didn't trust. Mickey eyed the second drink and the man pouring it before nodding. "Thanks."

They drank that one, too. After the third, Mickey considered the whole small talk shit out of the way. "Kev, do me a favour, 'cause I'm sure my sister won't and point out the fucking Russian who took my girls. So I can knock his teeth back into his skull."

"Nuh-uh, no racist pummeling of pimps in my bar; we've gone legit."

Mickey's eyes didn't leave Kevin. "So you'd rather get me to knock in the teeth of each individual in here trying to find the right one."

Kevin took little time to consider it. "He's right there," he said, pointing him out, then dismissing himself to the other patrons. Mickey swiveled around in his chair to see the man called Boris sitting at one of the cleaner tables, three guys posted by his side.

Looking them over, Mickey sneered. "They're like those fucking Russian nesting dolls, each one bigger than the last."

"Then don't go over there."

Mickey shrugged. "Nah. They're just for fucking show."

"Mickey, don't go over there."

He had every intention of ignoring her, but he made the mistake of looking at her and seeing that look she used to always give him when they were kids. Like when he was six and wanted to steal their pop's car, or when he was twelve and wanted to kick the crap out of that man who tried something on Mandy in the back alley.

"Okay," he said even after she looked at him skeptically. "Okay. Let's play pool instead, like a couple'a mo's."

"Really?"

"You'd be smart not asking again."

She didn't. Actually, the two played pool for a couple hours after having threatened the people originally playing, one of them being that Kermit character who Mandy flicked her tongue at. Of the three games they played, Mandy won the first two and the only reason she lost the third was because Mickey cheated, though she didn't particularly care one way or another. She hadn't smiled so much since she coming back to Chicago, though each smile was still guarded and masked with an insult or scowl of sorts. They didn't talk about her, not once because even Mickey knew not to.

Things were going okay, good even. So when Mandy saw Boris approach their pool game, her weak smile faltered completely, and she took her place by her brother's side, a firm grasp on her pool stick.

"Hello, Milkovich," the stranger said grinning so they could see the glint of his gold tooth. Mickey looked him up and down. "Hey." He was very aware of the fact that his sister was next to him.

Boris held out his hand which Mickey just stared at. "I wanted to thank you for your business." If possible, the man's grin grew even more. "Sasha would have thanked you herself, but you know how it is. Those girls…" He whistled. "They keep her very, very busy."

Mickey smiled at him, his lips tights, his eyes menacing, and his hands clenched into fists around his pool stick. He became very aware of how close he was to the 8 ball, close enough to reach for. Mandy pressed her side against Mick's, a small gesture, but one that brought Mickey to reach not for the 8 ball, but for Boris's hand.

He shook it. "Go fuck yourself," he said and returned to their game. Boris chuckled some more, but left to his own men. Mickey walked around the table and readied his next shot when he saw that look in Mandy's eye. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"Well fucking don't," he threatened, but Mandy smirked anyways. He almost smiled with her when Ian walked in. With Lip and that little sister of theirs, and some Mexican boy. Ian didn't see him, but he sure as shit saw Ian, especially when that other one snaked an arm behind his back, leaving where ever his hand landed open to Mickey's imagination.

He watched as they took a booth, walking past that table full of Russian thugs. Just then, Boris looked Mickey's way and barked a loud laugh, his comrades following suit.

"Christ, Mickey don't."

Mickey didn't realize what he was doing until he found himself face to face with the man, having topped off what was left of his beer first. Boris didn't acknowledge him until he finished laughing over whatever was so fucking funny. Boris pretended to wipe away a tear. "Ah, Milkovich, I forgot to ask earlier – so rude of me. Did you happen to drop the soap in there?"

Mickey struck him. A brawl quickly ensued. And Ian got involved.

…

The fight was brief and Mickey was barely part of it in the end by the time the cops got there. He'd taken a good beating from the Russians, but what mattered was that Boris was currently being dragged away by some cops with a grudge, barely conscious after what Mickey did to him. And Mickey didn't get arrested – there were too many involved, as luck would have it.

Mandy got involved, then ditched when she saw Tony pull up with more men in uniform; Lip, it seemed, went with her. But the two of them sure as shit held their own, better than Mickey could've predicted. And Ian?

He stuck around.

An ambulance had come amongst it all and Mickey was sitting against the back when all the fun died out, with Ian standing next to him. In gloves. And with a first aid kit.

"This is what you do, huh?"

"Yep."

"You're a nurse."

"A paramedic," Ian corrected.

Mickey shrugged. "A nurse on wheels."

"Sure." Ian dabbed at his wounds with some yellow substance on a sponge that made his skin tingle. For a moment, Mickey was dim enough to think it was just Ian's touch doing that.

Mickey sat quietly with him, his hands clasped together in his lap to stop from doing something stupid. Ian raised his other hand to Mickey's face and gently stroked his brow. It made him jerk away. "The fuck are you doing?"

Ian just gave him a look, all that was missing was an eye roll. "Checking to see if you need stitches. Jesus, Mick, relax."

Mickey jerked his head away again. "I just had a fucking brawl with four fat angry Russians and am now bleeding into my own eye. Of course I'm fucking relaxed."

Ian grinned, a sight Mickey had almost forgotten.

"So you gonna tell me why?" Ian prompted as he put away the weirdly coloured sponge.

Mickey frowned. "Why what?" That could mean so many things.

"Why you picked a fight with four fat angry Russians."

Mickey, to his own bewilderment, felt a flush creep up his neck at the question. "Probably best if you don't know." Then he nodded his head towards what was left of the crowd. "What makes you think I started it?"

Ian smiled some more. "You're joking, right?"

"No I'm fucking not."

Ian cocked a brow, still with that smile. "Oh, so you're saying prison's changed you? You're just another innocent upstanding member of society, now?"

Mickey felt that flush rise up to his ears. He swallowed, looking Ian's face up and down as though he couldn't hold his gaze. "I don't fucking know." He shrugged. "Maybe."

To his surprise, Ian didn't express doubt. He merely bobbed his head, then picked up a needle which didn't bother Mickey so much as the sudden touch of Ian's fingertips to his cheek. He jerked away again.

Ian pulled back his hand – and the needle – and huffed slightly, his lips together tightly in wait.

The flush started to leave Mickey's ears and neck. "Sorry," he muttered without meaning it, his eyes darting around to see if anyone was looking. "Guess I'm not used to being out."

"Not too many prison raping's, I hope."

"Anyone who fucking tried didn't live to talk about it, that's for fucking sure," he replied sharply enough to make Ian understand it's truth.

Ian held up the needle. "Can I stitch you up now, or will I get shivved for it?"

Though hesitant, Mickey allowed it. He had to grip at the edge of the ambulance to stop from jerking away again when Ian touched his cheek. Mickey thought of a crude joke about needles and poking that he decided not to say out of some strange fear. Ian leaned in closer, so close Mickey was making eye contact with his Adam's apple that moved up and down perfectly with every swallow.

His throat went dry and he avoided looking anywhere else.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the guy from before talking with Tony and Debbie, the one who had his arm at Ian's back, the one with the full head of hair and the decent build and a fondness for good hygiene. "You pricking 'Spics, now?"

Ian smiled tightly knowing he always was a bit of a racist. "You could say that. His name's Joaquin."

Mickey grimaced, either from the fact that now the face had a name, or the fact that the name seemed ridiculous to pronounce. "Joaquin? Seriously?"

"Yeah…"

A silence overcame them. Mickey's grip on the vehicle grew until his knuckles were white and his wrists were strained. He did his best not to give a shit. "…He treat you good?"

Ian stopped briefly enough to pull back to look at him wholly. A ghost of a smile appeared on his face, one Mickey didn't recognize. "He's nice."

Mickey scowled. "Nice?"

"Yeah, he's nice to me."

Mickey didn't stop scowling, only projected it away from Ian. "Sounds fucking boring."

Ian laughed shortly, softly like how Mickey remembered. Nothing else was said as Ian finished up on his brow, doing the bare minimum to clean away all the blood.

"That's gonna leave a scar."

Mickey shrugged, not moving. "Add it to the list."

He watched, still not moving, as Ian packed up all his shit into those medic kits nurses always carried around. He got rid of the bloodied gloves, too, and Mickey got a glimpse of a large burn on his palm that wasn't there seven years ago. "You'll uh… You'll need to come into the hospital to get the stitches removed. Probably some time in the next few weeks."

"Okay."

Ian looked back at him, but above eye level to where his brow was newly stitched. Nothing was wrong with it anymore, but Mickey didn't know that, and that didn't stop Ian from pressing his fingertips back against his brow. It probably should've hurt, but Mickey didn't flinch. Physical pain was never his weakness.

Ian didn't know why he was still touching him, or why his fingers moved up into his hair, still black and greasy like he remembered.

"Ian!" Joaquin called out to him, jogging over. "Debbie's wasted, we gotta go."

Ian's hand fell from Mickey's head and away from the hand Mickey had at some point placed over his own. Looking back over at Quin he nodded simply. "Okay," was all he said before walking over to him.

Mickey watched him go. And kept watching as the Spic's arm returned to Ian's back, his hand sprawled directly above his ass. He kept watching and watching and watching, and then, just before they turned a corner, Ian looked back.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Here," Svetlana said after having slapped a slab of frozen steak against his face. It made a noise as the meat hit his cheek. She took a seat across from him at the table, leaning back slowly so the chair creaked, then folded one almost completely bare leg over the other.

"Still missing nine inches," he told her.

Svetlana didn't smile, though she never smiled. Her brow flicked up and she lit a cigarette, taking a long drag before resting her elbow against the table so the cigarette didn't move far from her lips. "Yes?"

Mickey had been staring; her display demanded attention. He blinked. "I've been locked up too fucking long."

Svetlana smirked, her tongue flicking at her lips privately as Mickey retrieved a beer, ignoring the pointless steak defrosting on the table. He sat back down and she looked from him to the meat expectantly. "You think I bring out meat slab to eat? Wrong. I bring out meat slab for fucking meat head husband, and later tonight for Yevy's dinner. If you do not ice the bruises, they will show worse – take it from me, I know these things."

Mickey took discomfort from her words and it showed from the way his eyes switched from her to his beer. "You ain't gonna make this about your daddy or soviets or some shit, are you?"

She gave him a flat look. "Ice your fucking face," she commanded, then picked up a stack of cards, "I deal."

Mickey took a swig, then the steak up to his eye. "What're we playing for?"

"Fun."

Mickey blinked a few times. "Are you joking?"

She reconsidered, though it didn't show in her expression; nothing did, really. "Our son, then."

"What?"

"Winner wins, loser picks up Yevy from karate for next two weeks."

Mickey traded in his frozen steak for his five cards. "Some fucking mother you are."

She didn't touch that one, not even acknowledging it with a glare. Five minutes into the game, she was badgering Mickey to ice the eye again despite the fact that it was beginning to leak juices. "There ain't even any fucking point, anymore! The brawl was last fucking night – my eye's as black and blue as it's ever gonna fucking get, holy fuck."

She eyed him up and down, taking another drag that she released in a seductive grey cloud of smoke. "It really has been long time for you."

Mickey sneered. "The fuck you talking about?"

"No prison wife in jail to bend over in showers?"

"Please shut the fuck up."

"This is America," she said, her accent somehow getting thicker, "Freedom of speech."

"Yeah, this is America," he said back, setting down his cards to reveal his hand of ace-high-shit, "Home of fucking racists, homophobes, wife beaters, and apple pie. No more talk about where my cock has been, alright?"

His threat was hollow, which is perhaps why she smirked so slightly, dubbing out her cigarette and lighting up another with just as much poise as the last. Eventually, her actions dawned on Mickey mid-deal of another hand. "You said we couldn't smoke."

She leaned further back into her chair so it creaked again. "Did I? I don't remember."

He stared at her, contemplating another hollow insult or argument that he knew wouldn't faze her in the slightest, then opted wisely against. "Give me one of those."

She did and he relished in one of the smaller pleasures in his life. He varied between beer, cigarette, steak and cards for the remainder of their game, actually finding himself feeling better than he did in lockup.

Svetlana noticed it in his expression and she didn't hide her smile. "Really not so bad, is it?"

"What?" He put on a sneer more out of instinct than the company.

Svetlana gestured to the room around them, forcing him to actually look her in the eye respectfully. "Family."

Mickey's sneer became an even meaner grimace. "What the fuck are you babbling about?"

"I am talking about family life; white picket fence, good son, mail man who no longer shits in our yard… wife; it is a good life to live, yes?"

He looked away, choosing to focus on his cards rather than her. He shrugged dismissively, "I guess. Straight," he said in reference to his cards.

"How tragic for you."

"Is that a fucking gay joke?"

She smirked all the more. "Full house."

"Fuck me," he sneered to himself.

She took a drag, exhaling almost directly into his face. "Lessons end at 6, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, Winchester Avenue."

"Back of the Yards?"

"Yes," she said, "And if you're late, it is you who answers to angry fucking soccer mother Nazis."

Mickey gave her a look that expressed judgment on his part. "Jesus, alright."

She smiled sweetly, which even then came across as cold and threatening. Had she held a knife to his crotch, he wouldn't have appeared as surprised. "Game over," she said, then rose and took the steak from his face, "I make dinner, now."

She kissed his cheek which he smiled grudgingly over, then returned to his beer and cigarettes. She started playing some foreign Russian music while Mickey wondered if he was included in this whole dinner thing that Svetlana was making, though refused to ask her about it.

Things were as dull as Mickey could possibly hope for when there was a knock at the door. Svetlana made him get it, regardless of his desire to ignore them until they went away. "Since when do people fucking knock at this place?"

The knocker knocked again, a little insistently. For predictable ex-con reasons, Mickey hesitated. He looked back to where Lana stood in the kitchen, stirring something in an apron and everything. "Ay, Martha Stewart, where are the guns?"

She stopped what she was doing and looked at him sharply, a hand on her hip. "You are more Martha than I, prison boy, and your gun collection is gone."

It broke his heart. "No, you fucking didn't."

They knocked again, this time with a banging fist.

"I did," was all she said, then retreated further into the kitchen out of sight. She appeared again holding a baseball bat. "This'll do."

Mickey arched his brows, his mouth hung slightly in distaste. "Bitch, this ain't fucking whack-a-mole."

She closed the distance between them. "Shall I be balls of the house and answer door, then?"

"Hand over the fucking bat," he sneered and she handed it to him. "Thank you," he added sarcastically and another banging against his door sounded. "Holy Fuck, hold on," Mickey snapped while releasing the door from the many locks and chains.

"Is the bat needed?" Lana called out.

Mickey sized up the young man standing at his doorstep with a clipboard, over-styled hair and big Bambi eyes that didn't belong in the real world. It only took a glance. "No, I'd be safe with some fucking tweezers," he called back, then jerked his head at the man who looked to young to be a man. "If this is some bible-thumper shit, you can tell the Father that I'm already fucking saved."

He gestured to himself. "I'm more of a nihilist."

Mickey looked at him blankly, then decided not to bother figuring out what a nihilist, or whatever the fuck, was. He looked him up and down again, making certain the bat was visible at his side, then cocked a threatening brow. The stiches made it ache slightly and brought certain aching thoughts to his mind. "You looking for a fucking donation, or something?"

"No, I'm your parole officer."

Mickey let the bat slip to the ground behind the door and out of sight. "What happened to the other one?"

"Oh, she shot herself last June." He smiled awkwardly in attempt to ease the tension. "Which was… unfortunate for her…" He frowned, speaking more to his clipboard rather than Mickey. "…And her goldfish, actually… They starved to death, so…"

A silence fell.

The parole officer clicked his tongue. "Anyhow, if you could step aside, sir, I would ask you to remain within sight of me at all times while I inspect your living situation."

Mickey looked him over again rudely. "The fuck you on about, Doogie?"

He smiled curtly. "I should tell you, assessments of behavior factor into whether you remain out of prison. Already gotten into some trouble, then?"

Svetlana's meat cure appeared not to have done shit. "Fell down some stairs, that a problem?"

"What? No. Why would that be a problem?"

Mickey resisted the urge to reach for the baseball bat and stepped aside, allowing the stranger into his home. After a single glance around the room, he started writing things down and reading off his little clipboard. "Alright, my name is Max Wolff, and I am your assigned parole officer for the remaining period of your obvious parole. This will be the first of many random house visits in which I will be checking for namely drugs and guns, however any evidence of other illegal activities gives me the immediate right to place you under arrest."

"Don't you need a warrant?" Mickey asked coldly, making a point of standing behind him in attempt to scare the man.

He didn't seem to notice. "Actually no, that's one of the consequences of attempted murder, it would seem… Now, I understand you have a wife and child living under this address."

"Yeah," Mickey said, feeling himself grow even more uneasy, "Ay, Svetlana," he called to her. She appeared from the kitchen, holding a large kitchen knife to which Mickey dragged his hand across his throat in a 'put it away' motion.

"Who is the tiny person?" He wasn't that tiny, in fact, though did resemble a cartoon character in certain ways.

Max looked up, froze at the sight of the knife briefly, then returned to his clipboard. "As I previously mentioned, I will be searching for illegal and dangerous weapons. Lucky for you, that does not include baseball bats behind doors," he said without looking up, "However that does include knives with a blade longer than two inches—you don't have any licensed guns around here, do you?"

Svetlana gave him a pointed look. "Licensed?" He shook his head. "No. But feel free to poke around my shit anyways."

Max looked from Svetlana to Mickey, then when he looked away, Mickey flipped Svetlana off for her obnoxious 'told you so' expression.

Knowing how long this would take from the times with his father, Mickey slumped into the chair closest to him and lit up another smoke. "What was it you said about fucking knives?" His words were muffled from the cigarette between his lips.

"Hm?" The parole officer seemed distracted. "Oh, yes, no knives are allowed to be longer than two inches, unless it is in fact a kitchen knife like the one Mrs Milkovich appears to be wielding."

Svetlana smiled wryly, still holding it but returning to her dinner.

"…But it cannot leave the kitchen area."

Mickey snorted. "Are you fucking serious, man?"

"As a heart attack."

"So if I chop some onions in the living room instead of the fucking kitchen, I go back to lockup?"

"More or less."

"Well you ain't gonna be here every fucking minute, how the fuck will you know?"

The officer gave him a look as though expressing Mickey's stupidity. "Random checkups just like this?"

"Whatever," Mickey sneered, not enjoying the man's company. He gave a dismissing wave of his hand. "Go on, get your fucking invasion done while the sun's still up."

The man dismissed himself, barely acknowledging Mickey's presence, and searched through all of their belongings. In that time, Svetlana sat herself closely beside Mickey with the knife still in her hand.

She placed it on the table with purpose. "Do not fuck this up."

"I won't," he said through a mouthful of smoke and ash. "You trashed my guns and I stopped doing drugs years ago." That part wasn't technically true, but Mickey was certain it wouldn't be a problem today.

"You are stupid hoodrat, so I will say it again: do not fuck this up."

"Watch it, rub'n tugger."

Svetlana leaned in closer, even placing an arm delicately around his neck so the knife hung particularly close to his jugular. Mickey rolled his eyes at her thin threat, though did still wonder. "Do you know who he is?"

"Yeah, he's my fucking tax dollars put to work."

"He is Lachesis."

Mickey scowled in less understanding than before. "Who?"

"Lachesis, you dumb fuck. Decider of your fate and therefore ours. If you go to prison, you will not come back here. So be nice to him; respect him, obey him, suck his dick if he so asks. Do whatever it takes, Husband, or I will lose you for the last time." She turned the blade of the knife inward. "Do we understand each other?"

"Yeah, clear as fucking crystal, now move the fuck away from my jugular, please."

They heard the approaching steps of the Max character from down the hallway, and Svetlana – quite deliberately – waited till the last possible second to remove herself with the blade from Mickey and his throat. From that moment on, she played perfect housewife in the kitchen where the knives apparently belonged.

"Everything seems decent," Max told them, then frowned. "And strangely clean."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Mickey returned sharply before remembering Lana's words. He held back any other words with a bite at his lip.

"Oki doki, everything appears to be fine, now all that remains is discussing your daily active life. May I sit?"

"No."

Max sat. "Mainly this just consists of the weekly meetings you and I will share, and the specifications of your future employment."

Mickey bit at his lip again, folding his muscular arms across his chest.

Max clicked his pen and, possibly for the first time since entering the house, held eye contact with the Milkovich. They were so naturally wide and childlike… Mickey grimaced.

"Do you have a job yet?"

"No."

"Do you have any leads for a job in the remaining limit of time the State has offered you."

"No."

"Do you have any other means of income and stability?"

"Jesus Christ, no, alright?"

He held up a hand in response. "Easy, now… No need to get salty."

Mickey's hands clenched at his biceps as a way to compartmentalize. "No," he said flatly, "I don't have a job."

"By law, you're required to." He made a note on his stupid fucking clip board. "If you don't have one after a fortnight, then your parole will be taken to the board for reconsideration. So you should probably, y'know, get one."

"Thanks."

"You also have a curfew; you are required to be at this house every night at 10pm to coexist with possible job opportunities."

"How do you plan on keeping tabs on me without any fucking ankle monitor?"

"The State of Illinois has complete trust in your ability to follow the law. And also, if I am here past 10pm while you are not, then again, you will be placed under arrest. I will be here monthly, if not weekly, for random inspections and the occasional drug test. Aside from that, you will also be required to visit my office every Friday at 3. Here is my card if you have any questions or concerns, and the address is on the back." He of course handed him his card.

Mickey saluted him, then flicked the card at the table.

Max gave him a look. "Rude."

Mickey just gave him a look back, though it was crueler and far more intimidating. "How long do I have to put up with this for?"

"Well, you were sentenced for 15 years and you got out after seven on good behavior. Generally the way these things go is I'm assigned to your case for eight years, but due to budget cuts and further good behavior, that will be shortened to one year."

"Fantastic."

He grinned mockingly and said, "Isn't it?" Then he rose from the table and headed to the door with Mickey following him closely every step of the way. Mickey started closing the door on him even before he was completely out of it, when suddenly Max turned around with an afterthought. "This probably goes without saying, but no contacting your prior victims in any way—"

"How the fuck am I supposed to leave my house, then?"

"Only those related to your incarceration which I'm certain won't be a problem because Ms Samatha Slott is sentenced to another fifteen years."

Mickey had many things to say about Sammi, dark things that ran through his mind which he knew couldn't be said in front of the current company. " _You're_ the one who's supposed to keep me in line and how to keep straight and shit?"

"I am."

Mickey could've laughed. "The hell do you know about living in the Southside?"

He shook his head, seeming to look more mature in that moment than any other that had passed. "I'm just doing my job."

"Doing your part to keep society clean of trash like us, huh?" His voice lacked in general self-deprecation.

"Alright, listen, I know people like you. I know what kind of man you are, I'm used to them."

Mickey took a step closer to him with a malicious smile on his bruised face, and cocked his newly scarred brow. "You saying you ain't afraid of me, Doogie?"

He seemed to consider it. "No, this has been the most unpleasant thirteen minutes of my life and I can definitively say that you completely terrify me, but so do a lot of people. And I can arrest you. Have a good night."

With that, he left, long before Mickey could even consider reaching for the baseball bat or mildly slamming the door in his face. "Jesus," he muttered as he walked back to the table where he retrieved his dying cigarette. "What a fucking asshole."

Svetlana folded her arms and rested against the archway of the kitchen. She shrugged, her expression barely changing. "I like him. He is small. I could spiral him down field like pigskin."

"That's illegal in this country." She flipped him off in return then continued making dinner. A few hours later, Mandy arrived with Yevgeny. Mickey hadn't really noticed their absence much but was cornered into hearing all about it over steak and peas and potatoes – like a normal family.

…

Ian started work at 4am that morning, a shift he didn't mind so much because it reminded him of his army days, regardless how brief they'd been. It meant moving at his own pace, a meagre 8 mile run, and getting off work in time to get ice creams with Lizzie in the nicer part of town – which was still a shithole.

And a deserted shithole, considering how cold it was getting.

Ian and Joaquin were holding a hand of Lizzie's each and swinging her with every step no matter the fact that she was getting too old to do that now. "So did anything really cool and disgusting happen at work, Ian?"

She didn't bother asking about Quin's job, considering she wouldn't understand it. And neither would Ian, for that matter.

"Um…" He wracked his brain for something that would entertain her. "Nope. Slow day, actually." Quin looked at him and he shrugged. "The most I got were a bunch of old people with heart attacks. And there was a fire."

"Ooh, really?"

"Yeah, but it was an abandoned warehouse."

"Aw," Lizzie said, appearing disappointed.

Joaquin furrowed his brow down at the girl. "That's supposed to be a good thing, Liz."

"I know, but third degree burns are the coolest, plus they're super gross." She started telling a story about her friend Melanie who was lighting cigarettes outside the playroom and set her arm on fire. Ian remembered the girl being fine, but didn't correct Lizzie when she said her arm 'slid off into a pile of liquid fat'.

"Well, her imagination stretches far, doesn't it," Joaquin mumbled to Ian, making him smirk weakly. "Ay, Lizzie, ain't that your male friend over there?"

"Male friend?"

" _Puto_ , you try saying boyfriend."

Lizzie let go of their hands and faced them, folding her arms, even. "He's not my boyfriend," she said firmly, then nodded, "But he will be."

Ian couldn't resist a smile.

"Give me ten minutes," she said, beginning to back away towards the boy talking amongst the other boys in her class, "And get me a double scoop of chocolate."

"It's three degrees right now."

"Chocolate," she repeated more insistently, then twirled on her heels away from them.

Ian slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, watching her figure shrink in the distance until she disappeared behind the empty playground. "…Sometimes I worry she'll turn into Debs."

"STD's aren't genetic, she's fine."

Ian laughed despite himself and looked sideways to Quin whose smile was just as charming, and his teeth just as white, but it fell just as instantly. Ian was ignorant to the awkwardness of the silence that dragged out between them in Lizzie's absence. They hadn't been alone together since the aftermath of the brawl.

Quin looked after Lizzie even when she was gone, then noticed Ian's eyes on him. "What?"

He cocked a brow, shrugging innocently. "Wanna fuck in the parking lot?"

Quin grinned, even laughed a little bit. "No, no what I want to do is _not_ get arrested for public nudity and possibly even pedophilia, and talk about the ex con you got into a fist fight for instead."

Ian looked mildly taken aback. "Who told you he's an ex con?"

"Lip."

Ian nodded curtly. "'Course he did."

"Ii," he started, grabbing ahold of his arm to turn him. "Should I be threatened, here?"

A queasy feeling formed in the pit of his stomach which he did his best to ignore. "Quin," he himself began, looking over the empty playground, "We've been together four years."

"Five years."

"And I have loved you faithfully for all those five years."

Quin squinted at him skeptically.

Ian smiled tightly. "No, you shouldn't feel threatened, Quin," he said, then felt a tingle run down through his hands to his fingertips. He ran his thumb across them all, remembering that ex con and what he'd done, what little he did do. "Really," he added, his voice hoarse. And he looked at him.

The skepticism drained from Quin's face, and the smile that replaced it was warm and beautiful and familiar. "Okay," was all he said.

The constant eye contact made him feel more uncomfortable. "We should get Lizzie, right?"

"Yeah—hey," he said, gripping Ian's arm to get him to look at him again, "I love you."

Ian felt his chest tighten, and he smiled that familiar ghost of a smile and pulled him close. They kissed for as long as Ian could take it before his chest tightened more and his stomach churned.

When he pulled back he saw the concerned look on Quin's face. Ian's fingers tingled more. "What?"

"Remember that inappropriate offer to fuck in a public area disturbingly close to children? Uh, there's a fucking hobo over there doing it to himself."

Ian noticed him. "Oh, fuck." He considered what to do. "Wanna beat the shit out of him?"

Quin laughed shortly, not certain if he was joking until Ian didn't laugh with him. " _Cojeme_ , you serious?"

Ian shrugged, huddling more in his coal black coat. He couldn't help but think of what Mickey would've done – hell, what he'd seen him do once or twice. "We should go, right?"

"Right – Liz! Move your ass!"

Ian watched him, the civil, good, kind and caring man he'd been with for four—five years. The man he loved.

Right?


End file.
